


Double Time

by Sineala



Series: Pulse, Beat, and Measure [2]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Noir, New Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Baron Zemo's A+ Parenting, Cap_Ironman Big Bang, Civil War (Marvel), Civil War Fix-It, Comic Book Science, Comic Book Violence, Community: cap_ironman, Cosmic Cube, Dimension Travel, Drama, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hero Worship, Infinity Gauntlet, Infinity Gems, Iron Man: Director of SHIELD, M/M, New Avengers Vol. 1 (2004), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Romance, Secrets, Time Travel, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 123,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassino, Italy, December 1943. Special Agent Tony Stark, former Marvels adventurer, is sent to investigate a Cosmic Cube found by the Invaders -- and it's the perfect opportunity for him to rekindle his secret romance with Steve Rogers. But when Hydra attempts to steal the Cube, an inadvertent wish for help leads to the appearance of a Tony from the future of another world: Director Stark of SHIELD. This Tony is a man with a lot on his mind. He refuses to tell them anything about the future, but he seems to know much more than he should about Captain America. And something's happened that's clearly killing him inside, but he's not talking. When Director Stark's failed attempt to return home leads to the unexpected appearance of another visitor from his universe, all the lies come undone. Now there are two wars to fight, and the second one could ruin all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve Rogers, Earth-90214

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry in the Captain America/Iron Man 2015 Big Bang, and also the longest story I've ever written. I feel like everyone who writes 616 Steve/Tony is entitled to write at least one massive Civil War fix-it, and, well... here's mine. It's also a Marvel Noir World War II story with the Invaders, because why not? Fun with the multiverse!
> 
> This story is a sequel to my Noir story [Allegro, Forte](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2670503); you don't have to have read that to read this, but it does explain how Steve and Tony met (and got together).
> 
> Timeline-wise, this is several years post-canon for Noir, since Iron Man Noir takes place in 1939. As for 616, this is set just after the "Haunted" arc of Iron Man: Director of SHIELD; my interpretation of the Marvel telescoping timeline for the purposes of this story is that it is 2008 and Steve has been dead for six months. This is a canon-divergent replacement for the events of Avengers/Invaders. (The premise here, in fact, is basically "Avengers/Invaders reversed into Noir." In this story, the 616 Invaders never found a Cosmic Cube, as they did in Avengers/Invaders; the Noir Invaders did.) The more you know about Civil War and the surrounding arcs, the more fun you will have, although you can probably get by without too much specific 616 knowledge. You can probably also get by without having read any Iron Man Noir; everything you need to know about Tony is in the story, and everything about everyone else is mostly borrowed from 616, with alterations for a no-powers universe as appropriate. (You should read Iron Man Noir though; it's great. And if you have read Noir, you will know some things about the villain that many of the characters in this story do not know. Ahem.)
> 
> I had the pleasure of working with two artists for this Big Bang -- [onebilliondollarman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onebilliondollarman) and [phoenixmetaphor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor). Working with them was a wonderful experience, and they deserve all your feedback and praise. They drew beautiful things. The art masterposts on AO3 are [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5319212) (onebilliondollarman) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5320007) (phoenixmetaphor). The individual pieces are embedded in the story as thumbnails linking to the full art; art credits are in the endnotes. (One of the pieces is NSFW.)
> 
> I would also like to thank my betas: [gwyneth rhys](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys), [halotolerant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant), [kalashia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalashia), and [magicasen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen). They are all absolutely amazing people and I could not have done this without them.
> 
> CONTENT NOTES: There's nothing here that hits any of the usual AO3 warnings. The only deaths are nameless faceless Hydra agents, comic-book-violence style rather than tragic-war-fiction style. Unpleasant medical experimentation/torture is briefly threatened but does not actually happen. There's occasional mention of various period-typical attitudes and also brief discussion of 616 Steve and Tony's canonically-abusive fathers.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story!

It's silly of him, and it's damned unprofessional, but Steve wishes he could have been the one to head out to the rendezvous point.

This had all started a week ago. The Invaders had been ordered to the Italian front—the "underbelly of the Axis," Churchill had called it—to join the push north into occupied Europe, and here they were behind German lines. They had been sent to do reconnaissance on the nearby Benedictine monastery on Monte Cassino. They'd sneaked in and found the place only haphazardly-guarded, yet full of art and artifacts—dazzling, gleaming pieces covered in gems and precious metals, artifacts that wouldn't have been out of place in any of those issues of Marvels Steve had loved as a kid. Some of them looked downright _magical_. Some of the pieces—paintings, statues, jewelry, antique weapons, a mystical red sphere lit from within, colorfully-glowing bits of armor—were displayed in the open; most had been crated or covered.

It had been coincidence, random chance, that had led Steve to shove the edge of his shield under the lid of one of the wooden crates. When he'd pried the lid up, blue light had danced around the room, glinting off his shield, dazzling his eyes, and he'd remembered something he hadn't thought about in months, a memory he'd tried to preserve from the horrors of war: standing outside a mansion at night with Tony Stark, Tony Stark who'd smiled the most beautiful smile Steve has ever seen, Tony Stark who'd told him about a cube he'd never found, a Cosmic Cube that glowed blue and granted wishes.

It didn't take a lot of thought to imagine what the Axis could do with something like this. He didn't want to think about it. His capacity to imagine human evil has grown much broader over the past two years.

The Cube sat placidly in its straw-filled box, glowing.

He didn't touch it.

"Torch! Toro!" he'd called, in the loudest whisper he could manage, and he'd hammered the lid back down with his shield-edge. "Grab this, pack it up, go, go, go! Get Namor! We're moving!"

Rifle in his hands, Bucky had blinked at him from behind his mask, from his position guarding the door, as the other two Invaders had come barreling in.

"Cap!" Bucky hissed, as Toro shoved past him. "What about the mission? Recon only?"

Steve slung his shield on his back and lifted the box, holding it out to the other Invaders. It was bulky—bigger than it probably needed to be, for the size of the object within—but they could handle it. "New mission. We get this out of here, run as fast as we can, and we hope to hell no one catches us."

As they'd made their way back to camp, Steve was dangerously unaware, his mind wandering. All he could think of was that night. _Tony_. He was a consultant, he'd said. One of Fury's special agents. He'd said if they found something strange, they should let Fury know, and Tony could be there. Tony could be _here_.

The Italian forest at night was as dark as it had been that night in New York, the night they met, and it was all too easy to let his mind provide a memory of Tony, stepping close to him in the shadows, smiling, murmuring an offer that Steve had spent his whole life dreaming of. Even now he still can't quite believe that it really happened.

Tony had kissed him. _Tony Stark_ had kissed him. Tony Stark had taken him to bed.

It's been two years, and Tony's still the last person Steve's slept with. There's not a lot of opportunities for companionship for Captain America, who has an image to maintain, true enough—but there have been a few opportunities, and every time they've come up Steve can only think of Tony's bright blue eyes and his smile in the darkness and the way he'd curled around Steve, afterward. The way he'd looked at him. Like Steve mattered to him.

They haven't talked since then. What was Steve supposed to say? It's presumptuous to think that Tony Stark of Marvels, the man who could have anything and anyone he wanted, would want more from Steve than he'd already had. Besides, any attempt at writing his true feelings would get him censored and court-martialed. So he's never written. He's never contacted Tony. Until now.

That night, they got the Cube back to camp, and Steve broke out the radio to contact HQ. He didn't explain the meaning of the message to the team; he'd kept it secret even from Bucky this whole time, even up through getting the confirmation. He hadn't told anyone until yesterday, when he'd needed to send someone to actually make the pick-up. And even then he'd only told Namor who Namor would be be picking up, and nothing of the reason.

It makes sense to send Namor. If Marvels is to be believed—and Namor concurred on this point—Tony and Namor have met. (Namor sounded a little displeased at the idea of meeting him again.) He'll be recognizable. Hell, Steve thinks, more than a little out of sorts, Namor's spent more time with Tony than he has. After all, Steve's spent less than two hours with the man, and most of it was in bed.

What if Tony never meant it when he offered his expertise? What if Tony wants nothing to do with him? What if he's awful to Steve? What if this will be the most awkward thing he's ever done in his life? He's had a week to ponder that. A week of second guesses. Still, Tony is the expert on the Cosmic Cube, he's sure; he's done the right thing for the mission. His personal feelings—their personal feelings—shouldn't matter.

And now he's standing here, looking out over the ridge, waiting for them to come back, and he still wishes it had been him who'd gone.

It would have meant a day alone with Tony. _Shut up_ , he tells his overeager, lecherous thoughts. It only happened once. It's not going to happen again, no matter how much he wants it. Even if... even if Tony still wants him too, it would be a ridiculously bad idea. A great way to get a blue ticket.

He and Bucky have the watch, here on this chilly December afternoon, and Bucky wanders up next to him, lifts his domino mask to scratch at the skin underneath, and grins. "So, Cap," he begins. "You going to fill the rest of us in on the plan here? Gonna tell us why Namor's taking a vacation?"

Steve supposes that from Bucky's point of view the situation is inexplicable; they've been here for a week, here behind the Winter Line, which is longer than the Invaders usually bother staying in one place, especially in occupied territory, all because he hasn't wanted to risk shifting the Cube. They're still a little too close to the monastery for Steve's liking—the monastery that is still occupied by what are most likely Hydra personnel—but he doesn't want to move the Cube any more than he has to. He doesn't know if moving it can set it off, if it can be set off, and he really doesn't want to find out. Tony will know.

He hopes they can be professional. Do their jobs. Even if Tony doesn't want him.

What if Tony does?

He shuts his eyes. He can't think about that.

He looks up and smiles at Bucky. Bucky's going to have to know what's happening anyway, soon enough; they're all going to find out, when Namor and Tony get here. So he swallows hard and nods. Time for the truth. A redacted version of it.

"The artifact in the box is called a Cosmic Cube. I happen to have a... friend... with special expertise in the area, and I've called him in to consult. Namor's retrieving him from the rendezvous point. Hopefully he can tell us if the Cube is safe to move and how to handle it. I didn't want to—" _get anyone's hopes up_ , he nearly says, and he bites his tongue. "I wasn't sure he would be available. He's a busy man. But it seems he can spare some time for us after all."

Bucky raises his eyebrows. "A civilian friend?"

Steve nods, and he can see Bucky frowning, running through the names of all the people Steve has told him about from his past life—they've shared a lot with each other, because sometimes there's nothing to do in war but talk—and Steve knows he can't match that description to anyone Steve has ever talked about.

He hasn't exactly mentioned to anyone what he did the night before he shipped out.

Steve takes a deep breath. "Tony Stark."

Wide-eyed, Bucky's staring at him like Steve's said he's gotten Glenn Miller and his Army Air Force Band to come play for them—which, Steve thinks, would probably be more likely than what he has actually managed to arrange, because there are celebrities and then there are _celebrities_ , and Tony Stark is the latter.

"You're pulling my leg, right?" Bucky asks. His voice has gone high, cracking with excitement, and even though he's eighteen now and the Invaders' sniper, someone who's seen more than anyone his age should, suddenly he seems very, very young, like the excited kid he'd been when the Army had assigned him to Steve. "Tony Stark? Really? Tony Stark, who used to be in Marvels magazine? Not some other fella?"

"Tony Stark from Marvels," Steve confirms, and Bucky whistles in admiration. "No joke, Buck, I swear. You meet a lot of interesting people when you're Captain America."

"I'll say," Bucky says, and Steve wonders how that stacks up against the time he met the president and was presented with the vibranium shield. Bucky looks possibly even more impressed at the idea of Steve knowing Tony Stark. "You never mentioned before that you knew him." His tone is a little accusatory; as far as he knows, it's a great story and Steve has no reason to keep it a secret.

Steve shrugs awkwardly and feels the shield shift on his back as he does so. "I don't know him that well at all. I met him at a party once, right before I shipped out. We... we got on pretty good." _That's one word for it, Rogers._ "He said I should call him if I needed him, if I found something that looked like it belonged in Marvels. So I'm calling him."

He's not thinking about the other ways he needs Tony, he tells himself. He isn't.

Bucky is still wide-eyed. "Imagine that. _Tony Stark_ owing you some kind of favor."

Something in Steve's gut recoils to think of it as a favor, even though the full story could easily be interpreted that way. But he hadn't slept with Tony because he'd wanted something from him—heck, Tony had been the one who'd offered. He'd just— he'd wanted him for his entire life, one of those daydreams he never thought could come true, and then Tony Stark, star of his fantasies for years, had held out his hand, and how was Steve supposed to say no to that? He's only human.

"Yeah," Steve echoes, dully. "Imagine that."

The rifle rattles on his back as Bucky practically bounces on his toes. "Hey, you think he'd sign a copy of Marvels for me? Did he sign one for you?"

"No, he didn't," Steve lies. "But I bet he'd sign one for you if you asked him. When he's not busy, though." He makes the admonishment a little sterner than it should be.

He knows he's a lousy liar. He hopes Bucky doesn't suspect anything. About anything.

Steve's autographed copy of Marvels, creased and folded, worn from hours spent rereading it, is in the bottom of his pack. Tony's autograph itself is innocuous enough, but he'd signed it right below the picture Steve drew of him, and Steve can't shake the feeling that anyone who looks at the drawing will know what he feels for Tony, just from the way he's drawn him, from the care he took with it. When he looks at it, he pictures Tony signing the page, setting the magazine down, and stepping into his arms for one last kiss—

"Keen! Right, Cap, I got it. I won't bother him. He's just a regular joe." Bucky rocks back and forth on his heels in barely-suppressed excitement, and then entirely contradicts the sentiment of his last sentence with more breathless anticipation. "How is he? What's he like?"

_He's a great kisser_ , Steve doesn't say.

Steve tugs at one of the wings on his head and straightens his cowl. His throat is dry. "He's—" he coughs. "He's swell."

Luckily for him, Bucky is too caught up in the news to register any of Steve's discomfort. "Say," he says, "you mind if I go tell Torch and Toro the news? Boy, Toro'll be over the moon!"

Officially, Bucky's supposed to be on watch with him until they swap shifts with Hammond and Raymond—Torch and Toro—but in practice, Steve can cover it alone. Those enhanced super-soldier senses are good for something. And he wants to be by himself, right now. He's got a lot to think about.

He shouldn't be thinking about it, he tells himself. Nothing's going to happen.

"Yeah," he says, a little hoarse. "Yeah, go tell 'em, Buck. You've got my permission."

"Thanks, Cap," Bucky says, and then there's the sound of footsteps pounding away from him as Bucky turns and heads down the wooded slope to the bottom of the little valley where their camp lies. Steve knows if he turned back he'd just barely be able to see the little mass of tents—his and Bucky's, Torch's and Toro's, Namor's, and then the equipment tent, because they carry slightly more gear than most parties, and Steve's metabolism calls for more food. It's not like Steve can't lift it. So they're carrying Fury's special equipment. Prototypes of various things. Newer radios. This week they've got the Cube there too, in its box, under a tarp, just like everything else. Inconspicuous. He hopes so, anyway.

Steve turns back the other way, looking out at the ridge and the forest beyond, in the opposite direction from Cassino—the way Namor went, yesterday morning.

He sucks in a breath. The air is cold in his lungs.

He can't call him Tony.

_Mr. Stark_ , he rehearses in his head. _Agent Stark. Glad you could join us, Agent Stark_. Steve is an officer. He's a captain in the United States Army. He has his duty. This is going to be professional. He can do this.

_Agent Stark_ , he repeats to himself. They're colleagues. Mr. Stark is one of General Fury's civilian consultants. They will have a professional relationship.

Steve will be polite, and he will be cordial, and he will not think about how Tony's mouth tasted, and he will not think about how Tony's knowing hands slid down his body—

Steve shuts his eyes briefly and bites out an obscenity.

When he opens his eyes again there are two figures moving through the trees toward him, and Steve's heart pounds in his chest. The first is Namor, of course, and the second—

It's Tony Stark.

* * *

"Password?" Steve manages to call out, and he has one hand back on his shield, even though he knows full well who it is. There is something to be said for the familiarity of protocol. His voice doesn't even sound like his; it echoes too much in his head.

As they slowly move closer—both of them are wearing very bulky packs—Namor rolls his eyes, like the idea of signs and countersigns is something that Steve has come up with personally to inconvenience him. Steve can't bring himself to hate the man, though; he's good to have in a fight, and he has connections in the strangest of places. The ears are still a little odd though, he has to admit.

"Liberty," Namor says, sounding bored.

Steve nods. "Justice."

He can do this. He lets his gaze fall on the man next to Namor, the man who's just a little shorter than him, the man standing there with one hand bracing the strap of his pack, the man regarding him silently with deep blue eyes.

His first thought is that Tony looks _good_. Tony's dressed for the weather in a mix of civilian and military gear; there are no rank markings anywhere on his heavy Army-issue coat, not that Steve expects to find them. He lets his gaze settle on Tony's face; Tony looks a little older, a little more careworn, and there's a light scar by his ear that he didn't have two years ago. But he has the same immaculately-groomed Van Dyke framing his mouth, and his wide eyes take in Steve and his colorful Captain America uniform with equanimity.

Tony's not quite smiling.

Steve tries not to take it personally, and he holds out a hand. "Welcome, Agent Stark," he says, crisply, authoritatively, the way he's been rehearsing it. "It's good to have you with us."

Tony takes his hand off of his pack and takes Steve's hand in a firm grip—not that Steve can feel anything other than the pressure of it through his gloves. "Captain Rogers," Tony returns. His voice is cool and professional, and Steve tries to suppress the rush of excitement at the fact that _Tony Stark knows his name_ , because it wasn't as if Steve had mentioned his last name when they'd met. "Likewise. It's good to be here."

Tony's still holding his hand, and then something in his gaze flares to life, something warm and friendly. And he smiles and it's _that_ smile, the one that's haunted Steve's dreams for two years. The way Tony looked that night, when he wanted him.

Steve is dimly aware of chatter and pounding footsteps behind him—Torch, Toro, and Bucky coming up the hill—but then Tony pulls him close, pulls him into an embrace. Steve's arms go around him, reciprocally, and he can't focus on anything except the feel of Tony's body pressed against his.

Tony's breath is warm against his ear as he leans in and his voice is dark, husky, the kind of voice he really shouldn't be using in public. "Come on," he whispers, low and coaxing. "Don't be a stranger. I've missed you, Steve."

He tightens his grip on Tony briefly as he goes weak in the knees. It shouldn't affect him like this—nothing should affect him like this—but it's _Tony Stark_ and he's _right here_ and he says he's _missed him_ and—well, this may not be exactly what Steve's dreams about Tony Stark used to be like, but it's what they've been for the past two years.

"I've missed you too, Tony," Steve murmurs, pitched—he hopes—so that only Tony can hear him.

"Wow," comes Bucky's awed voice, from somewhere behind him. "You really weren't kidding when you said you knew Tony Stark, Cap!"

Steve steps away and Tony draws back and he's smiling, he's really smiling, but as he turns to Bucky, his face shifts. He's still smiling, but the smile is different. Polite. Practiced. It's dazzling, all right, but it's not real like the one he'd saved for Steve. It's convincing, though; Steve wouldn't have known if he hadn't seen the first one. There's something different about his eyes, something a little more restrained.

Steve hopes no one notices.

The consummate showman, Tony spreads his hands wide. "Now, really," he says, with that charming grin, "would Captain America have lied to you?"

It seems strange to hear Tony talking about him like he's the famous one now, like Captain America is someone everyone knows everything about. Of course, he _is_ famous, he knows he is—but it's not like he's had a lot of time on leave to meet the public, or to do anything more than very occasionally see his own newsreels from the back of a crowded theater. "Private Rogers" still has a cover to maintain, after all.

He's not sure he can get used to being as famous as Tony Stark.

Bucky has no ready reply for Tony's question; of course Captain America doesn't lie.

Captain America doesn't lie, but Steve Rogers is concealing a few facts.

Steve clears his throat. "Right. How about we move back to camp for the rest of the introductions?" Someone has to stand watch, though, and he supposes that should really be him. "Invaders, if you'll show Mr. Stark down the hillside—"

Bucky nods, and the rest of the group begins picking their way down the slope.

"I can take the watch, if you want to join them," Namor says, in another one of those long-suffering tones. He has several. This one is mostly annoyance. "I've seen more than enough of him since yesterday. You're welcome to him." He unslings his pack and holds it out. "Here. It's mostly Stark's gear."

Steve tries and fails to suppress his excitement at the offer, as he takes the pack, hoisting it over his shield. "Thanks, Namor."

"Have a good time," Namor says, as Steve heads down the hill after the group, and Steve's pretty sure Namor doesn't actually mean it, but he doesn't care, because Tony's here.

Tony's here and Tony likes him back and this is going to be incredibly awkward. They can't do anything. They shouldn't do anything, anyway. But Steve thinks about Tony smiling at him, about Tony's voice in his ear, and he's not sure he cares.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/34780/34780_original.png)

* * *

By the time Steve gets down the hill, Tony's in the middle of the little clearing in between all of the tents, and the other Invaders are gathered around as Tony tries to work out what to call them. It's not as easy at it looks.

"So," he says, turning to Bucky, "James Barnes, huh? Jim? Jimmy?" Tony's clearly been given files on them, but that will only get you so far with the Invaders. It won't even get you as far as their names.

Bucky shakes his head and grins. "Bucky."

Steve watches Tony mouth _Bucky?_ to himself.

"His middle name's _Buchanan_ ," Toro says, slyly, like it's a taunt. "His parents were feeling all presidential, we bet. And you'll never guess my name, Mr. Stark." He's bright-eyed, eager.

God, they're _kids_ , aren't they? Fury gave him kids to take to war. They're all grown-up now—it's war, and they couldn't not be—but sometimes Steve looks at them and really feels it, even though he knows he's only five years older than either of them.

Tony rubs at his chin in thought. "You're Thomas Raymond, but from the way you've said that I'm guessing you aren't a Tom or a Tommy."

"Toro," he says, and Tony throws his hands in the air and starts laughing in disbelief.

"Please," he says, imploring, to the man next to Toro. "Tell me you have a regular nickname."

Steve puts his hand over his mouth to hide the grin.

"It's Jim," Torch says. "Jim Hammond, but—"

"We call him the Human Torch!" Toro interjects, proudly. "Just Torch, usually."

Torch looks away for a bit, and Steve knows he doesn't want to retell the entire story. Still, he can't have hated the incident that much; he's never seemed to mind the name at all. "I— I set myself on fire once."

Tony blinks. "You're the demolitions expert, aren't you?"

"Well," Torch says, shaking blond hair out of his eyes, "I didn't explode, did I?"

And Toro, of course, is grinning at Torch like he thinks the world of him no matter what, because he always does, and Tony's brows are furrowed like he thinks this is some kind of elaborate joke, and that's when he spots Steve.

Steve can tell when Tony sees him, because Tony just _lights up_. Like a theater marquee.

"Steve!" Tony says, and then he pauses. "I can actually call you Steve, right? You don't have some bizarre nickname that I'll never guess?"

"You can actually call me Steve," Steve acknowledges, giving him the permission that he's already had, and Tony just beams at him again, and God, someone's going to notice. "Pretty sure you know my bizarre nickname already."

Tony meets his eyes, and his gaze is dark, intense. "The whole world knows you, Captain America."

Steve looks away; he doesn't quite know how to take the sheer depth of feeling in Tony's eyes. They barely know each other, but it definitely seems like Tony hasn't forgotten about him in the intervening years either.

"Here," he says, awkwardly, for lack of anything else to do, and he's holding out Tony's pack. "I brought you your gear. From Namor."

"Thanks," Tony says, "but it would actually be more useful if you put it with the Cube—that pack is all books and scientific equipment."

Oh. Right. The Cube. The reason Tony came here. Steve feels like kicking himself. Just because he—still—has a crush on Tony is no excuse to be an idiot about it.

"You probably want to see the Cube, don't you?" Steve asks, a little sheepish. "Do you need food first? We've got... well, rations." He almost mentions that he saved Tony his chocolate bar, but he wonders if that's a little too much. Even though he actually did.

Tony grins at him, and Steve goes all funny and wobbly, just looking at him. "I'm fine. Not hungry. Might as well get to work. I've only wanted to see a real Cosmic Cube for thirteen years, after all."

"Right." Steve clears his throat. "Invaders, leave Mr. Stark to it. Bucky, technically it's still your watch. Torch, Toro—"

"Cleaning the guns," Torch says, cheerfully enough.

Steve nods. "Okay. I'll just—"

Tony's fingers snake around Steve's arm, and Steve nearly yelps in surprise. "You'll come with me, Cap," he says. "You need to tell me all about how you found this thing, anyway."

_It's a good excuse_ , he thinks, and he smiles back at Tony.

* * *

Steve pulls back the lid on the crate and watches the eerie blue light reflect in Tony's eyes and cast shadows on the angles of his face. Tony's gaze is avid. His lips are slightly parted, and all his considerable focus is trained on the object in the box. He's amazing to watch, like this; Steve has wondered his entire life what it would be like to really see Tony at work. There had been illustrations in Marvels of course, ranging from pen-and-ink to actual photography, but none of them captured the life in Tony, not like this.

It's a close fit, the two of them in the tent with all the gear, but Steve doesn't care. In fact, he's enjoying it.

Crouched in front of the crate, Tony inhales, a slow shaking breath. "Wow," he says. His voice is hushed, almost reverent. "That's... that's really something, Cap."

He's done this, part of Steve tells himself, brimming with a sense of pride that the rest of him knows is unseemly. He's brought Tony this. He's made him this happy.

Steve carefully removes the lid entirely and lets it drop to the ground, leaning it against the side of the crate. "Is that it?" His own voice sounds far too nervous, unsure. "Is that a Cosmic Cube?"

Tony is smiling, enthralled. "I'll need to run a few tests to be absolutely sure, but yeah. Yeah. Nothing else in the world could look like that." His gaze is still fixed on the Cube. "I can hardly believe you found it. How the hell did you find it?" He doesn't sound accusing, just... admiring. Like he can't believe his good fortune.

Steve shrugs. "You were briefed on the mission, yes?" Tony nods, but Steve continues anyway. "So there we were, doing recon on the monastery over there, Monte Cassino, and there's this room, big room, down a flight of stairs, and it's where everything was. Art. Artifacts. Our best guess had been that they were packing up... items of cultural importance, but then there were a few things there that seemed more like your Marvels specialties. A glowing red stone. That kind of thing."

"A Bloodstone?" Tony murmurs, and there's a jolt of surprise there. He meets Steve's eyes and then waves his hand. "No, no, go on."

"There's not really much to tell," Steve says, feeling a little awkward. "There were a bunch of crates. I can't really say why I picked this one. It was on the top of one of the stacks in the middle of the room. I just... opened it up. And there it was. This cube. And I remembered what you said to me about a Cosmic Cube, and I thought, well, maybe this was it."

Tony's reaching out a hesitant hand to the Cube like he wants more than anything to touch it but doesn't dare. "You remembered me telling you about the one that got away, huh?"

"Tony," Steve says, low-voiced. He uses the man's name deliberately and Tony's eyes snap up to meet his. Tony drops his hand. Tony's eyes are wide, but there's a little strain there. Nerves, maybe. What does Tony have to be afraid of? "You really think there's a chance I could forget anything about that night?"

Tony's silent for long moments, and Steve watches his mouth shape the words, the barest whisper. "I can't either." Steve realizes this is the real Tony Stark, the man behind the glamour. He's showing him himself like he can't help it, and he's maybe a little frightened that he can't.

It was only one night. They're practically strangers.

Steve wonders how in the world they could do this to each other. This shouldn't mean anywhere near as much as it feels like, and yet it does. For both of them.

One breath, another, and then Tony seems to pull himself together. He sits back on his heels, his spine a little straighter. "Okay," he says. His voice is crisp, brisk. "Okay. Right. Business."

Steve nods. "All right. So what does the Cosmic Cube do, exactly? Assuming this is it."

Tony's eyes slide over to his. His gaze is bright, eager, like a professor about to explain his theories. "If you want to know exactly what this does, ask me after I've had some time to study it. The legends attribute a lot of things to the Cosmic Cube, but it's impossible to know which of the stories are true, or even close to the truth. I will say, though, that if it's even a quarter as powerful as the stories say, it's a good thing you rescued it. Because the legends say it can do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything," Tony repeats, firmly. "Infinite power. Infinite energy. You just... hold it in your hand, and make a wish."

Steve resolves never to touch it. "But that can't be true, right?"

Tony gives a little shrug. "Obviously there have to be some practical limits; it can't be truly infinite. But in the hands of someone malicious—it gets even worse than that."

Steve can't even conceive of something worse than infinite power in the hands of the Axis. "How can it be worse?"

"Subjectively worse, I suppose." Tony's gaze is fixed on the Cube. "There are stories of people trapped in the Cube, imprisoned in fantasies of the wielder's choosing. I always thought those ones sounded particularly horrific."

Steve shudders. That's— God, that's such an awful thought, to be trapped inside something like that for years, decades, while life moves on outside. "Are there— what if there are people trapped in there now?"

What if he touches it? What if he brushes up against it and is sucked in and no one can find him? Worse, what if one of the other Invaders does?

Tony's hand settles on Steve's shoulder, bracing him. "If there are, I'm hoping that investigating the Cube will reveal a way to get them out. But there's also a chance that the Cube doesn't do that at all and it's merely an infinite power source." Tony's thumb rubs in a circle over Steve's collarbone. It's a friendly touch, and he's grateful for it.

"'Merely,'" Steve mutters, and Tony squeezes his shoulder a little harder.

"Better one of those things than all of those things, right?" Tony's smile is a little bleak. "Like I said, I can't know without getting a look at it how much of the stories are true. The story about it as a prison only occurs rarely, in comparison to the number of times it's been referenced for its power. Might be it got mixed up with something else. That happens in this sort of thing all the time. Folktales are messy like that." His grin is a bit wider now, thank God. "Trust me, Cap, I'm an expert."

"I trust you," Steve says, because of course he does; how can he not trust Tony Stark?

"Well, good." Another smile.

Tony's hand slides from Steve's shoulder up to his neck, then his face. Tony is cupping his jaw, his fingers stroking lightly over the exposed bit of his chin that is the only thing Steve's cowl doesn't cover. Steve shudders. He feels like he's dreaming, like everything's unreal, as he tilts his head back, baring his throat to Tony, and Tony's eyes go dark.

Steve draws a shuddering breath and with difficulty, drags his gaze away from Tony to the world past the tent flap. There's no one visible outside, but any of the Invaders could walk by at any second. He's just lucky they haven't.

"Tony," he begins, with reproach in his voice that he really doesn't want to have to put there, and Tony nods and drops his hand.

"Right," Tony says, and his gaze is a little rueful. "I'm usually better than this, I swear. I didn't know it was going to be like this. It's just so hard to think about anything else when you're _right here_ —"

"I know," Steve says, fervently, because does he ever.

Tony smiles again. "Look. Tonight, okay? You go do whatever you have to do, and I'll start my analysis, and then later we'll—" He stops, like he doesn't know what words to commit to.

Maybe they don't need words.

"We will," Steve agrees, smiling, and Tony smiles back.

* * *

He leaves Tony bent over the Cube with various gadgets spread out on the floor of the tent next to musty books in a language Tony says is Old High German, and he takes his half of the watch back from Namor. Steve hopes no one nefarious stumbles across their camp, because right now he's honestly not much good for thinking about anything except Tony.

Bucky comes up next to him in the twilight.

"He's really just like in the magazines, isn't he?" Bucky asks, and there's no need to specify who they're talking about.

Steve manages to suppress a noise that wants to be a dreamy sigh; it comes out as a yawn. "He is."

"You think he'll be here long, Cap?"

A pang of sadness runs through Steve at the thought of not seeing Tony again for maybe months—maybe years—maybe ever—but he knows the truth. "Not more than a couple days, Buck. He's a busy fella, like I said. He's just here to see if the Cube can be safely moved back to HQ, and then if it can, he moves it. A couple of us might have to help him; it depends."

"Dibs," Bucky says instantly, and Steve laughs.

"I'll think about it."

"Aww, c'mon, Cap." There's a bit of a whine in Bucky's voice. "I didn't get to go to the rendezvous; at least let me help on the way back."

He tamps down on the entirely inappropriate feeling of possessiveness. Tony is his own person, and they both have their duties, even if Tony also wants— even if they both want—

Steve swallows hard and is glad it's dark enough that Bucky can't see him that well.

"Like I said," he repeats, "I'll think about it. Say," he adds, changing the subject as gracefully as he can possibly manage, "if Mr. Stark's not busy tonight you might get him to sign something. Coax a tale or two out of him."

Steve can see better in the darkness than most people, of course, and Bucky's grin is practically blinding. "Gosh, wow! I'll have to find that issue of Marvels after all." He pauses. "But you don't have anything for him to sign, Cap. That's not fair."

"I'll be fine." He bites back the half-embarrassed grin that keeps trying to spread all over his face.

When they come back in as the watch changes, Steve isn't really surprised to find that Namor and Toro have swapped, so that Toro has the free time to spend sitting at Tony's side. They've got a little fire going—albeit one heavily shielded by the forest, and it's cloudy enough that no one's going to pick them up from the air—and Tony is sitting next to the fire, holding out his bare hands for warmth, grinning and telling some ridiculous story.

"Any luck with the Cube, then?" Steve asks, and Tony looks up and brightens.

"Cap!" he says, grinning. "Sure, yeah, I've made some progress. It's a Cosmic Cube, that much is certain, and it should be safe to move if no one touches it directly. I'd like to spend tomorrow getting some more measurements, and then the morning after I can pack it up and be out of your hair." He doesn't look anywhere near as sad as Steve feels at the prospect of leaving, but his face is carefully composed; maybe he's just better at hiding it.

"We're willing to escort you, of course," Steve says. "I've been told to give you anything you require." He's pretty sure no one else notices the amused glint in Tony's eye at that statement. "Let me know."

Tony smiles. "Oh, I will," he says. His voice is a little lower, but not so that anyone else would notice the entirely different conversation they are also having here.

"So," Steve asks, "care to brief the rest of the team on the Cube? I'll relay it to Torch and Namor in the morning, or you can."

Tony's nod is businesslike. "Of course," he says, and he launches into the same explanation he'd given Steve, about the potential powers of the Cube. He says this time that he doesn't think anyone's trapped in it, when he says that they should avoid touching it. At the end of the speech, Toro raises a hand, and Tony nods at him to ask.

"Mr. Stark," Toro says, "when we found the Cube, it was crated with other valuables. In your opinion, did they know what they had?"

Frowning, Tony rubs at his chin, and it's a long time before he answers. "In my opinion," he says, finally, "they must not have known. Maybe they didn't think the Cosmic Cube was anything but legend." He shuts his eyes briefly, and opens them again; his gaze is haunted. "I hope to God they never find out what they had."

"You think they didn't know," Steve says, thinking aloud, "because if they had known, they would have used it."

Tony's response is a sad sigh. "Yeah. And if they knew but hadn't used it, they'd be after us now, which they don't seem to be. Unless they don't realize yet what's gone." He looks a little rueful. "In which case I at least am severely underpowered for any possible recovery team they might send. Should have brought the armor."

Bucky shifts position on the log next to the fire. "How come you didn't?"

"Didn't want to draw attention to your team," Tony says, with more than a trace of regret in his voice. "The suit's big. Not exactly inconspicuous. I need a full team of my own to haul the crate and help me get ready. Suiting up and getting fully-loaded for battle is not a one-man job. Plus, the current Iron Man armor only has enough power for a couple hours at most, especially if the new flight capability is involved. I was instructed to pack light, get here, get the Cube, and get out. Fast. Discreet. I love the suit, but it's not exactly compatible with 'fast.' Not like that."

"Oh." Bucky hangs his head.

"Hey," Tony says, low, encouraging. "Hey, no, it was a fair question. I'll admit that Marvels might have made the suit look a little more impressive than it is, in certain respects. A bit of artistic license."

Bucky picks his head up, heartened, and Toro now is the one looking enthralled. "It _flies_ , though?" Toro asks.

"Yeah, it does." Tony's voice is brimming with pride. "That's new, the flight, since Marvels shut down. Still has a few kinks I need to work out, but it actually flies."

"Wow," Toro says. "That's keen! I always wondered how come you couldn't fly, when I read that issue where you fought MODOK, and _he_ could fly—"

Now that Steve's watching it, he can see the mask slide over Tony's face. It's nothing so obvious perhaps as the Iron Man helmet, but it is undoubtedly a mask: the daring adventurer, brave and fearless. It's clear that it's a mask Tony's comfortable wearing, but it's concealing nonetheless. It's the man he'd expected to meet, when he'd told Janet Van Dyne he'd like to get a chance to talk to Tony Stark from Marvels. He'd expected the stories, the patter, the showmanship. He's not really sure how it happened, but instead he got the real man behind the stories: still brave, still determined, but tired and a little rough-edged, wound up tight from the battlefield. Better than the man from the stories, by far. And, incredibly, Tony, the real Tony, had liked him. Tony still likes him. That's the best part.

"Aww, well," Tony says, with a tinge of self-effacement in his tone, "MODOK couldn't really fly! He could only sort of hover. And mind you, he couldn't do either of those things after I was done with him!" He laughs, inordinately pleased with himself.

And he's off, bright-eyed, gesturing enthusiastically, retelling the story of his battle against MODOK. It's a good story, and Tony is, as one might have expected, an excellent storyteller, with a manner about him that could draw in a crowd; even though Steve's read the issue more times than he can count, watching him tell it is an entirely new experience.

When Tony gets to the end of the story, Bucky and Toro have produced battered old Marvels issues, and are offering them hesitantly to Tony, pencils in hand. Toro's is even the issue about MODOK, and Tony laughs again to see it. He scrawls an inscription and his name across Toro's copy, and then turns to Bucky's—Bucky has the issue about the Bloodstone—and repeats the process.

"Look, Cap!"

Bucky bounces over to Steve and shows him the inscription, barely visible in smeary pencil in the flickering firelight. _To Bucky, keep your powder dry. —Tony Stark_. The signature trails across the page with a bold flourish.

"That's great!" Steve tells him, because he knows just how exciting it is to meet Tony Stark for the first time.

Tony braces himself on the log and looks up, meeting Steve's eyes with an almost devilish grin. "How about you, Captain? Got anything you need me to put my mark on?"

_Only my entire body_. The thought is both instant and entirely inappropriate, and from the look in Tony's eyes, he knows Tony knows exactly what he's thinking.

"Not right now," Steve manages to say, "but thank you." He clears his throat. "Anyway, we should all probably turn in for the night. I can help you set up your tent if you'd like...?"

This is the tricky part, the offer. He hopes Tony will know what that means; Tony has to, doesn't he? And then they have to hope that Bucky won't notice when Steve comes to bed a little later than usual, not that they won't be as fast as they can anyway. It's not exactly the romance Steve's been dreaming of, but it's all they've got.

Tony coughs and looks away. "Actually, I, uh. Didn't pack a tent. I needed the space for gear, and the bedroll was bulky enough. I can always sleep in the equipment tent, out with the Cube."

It'll be little harder to convincingly arrange, Steve judges, and there's a lot less room there than even the regular tents—which are not exactly large to begin with—and the thought of either of them—of _anyone_ —being next to the Cube for extended periods of time gives Steve the willies. But, well, if he has to, then he has to. "Want me to help clear you a space in the tent, then?"

Tony nods—

"Aww, Cap, come on!" Bucky interrupts them. "You can't let _Tony Stark_ squeeze into the equipment tent! Here, Cap's and my tent is the nicest, Mr. Stark. If I swap with you, and you share with him, then you'll get a bit more space and I can bunk down with the radio. I'm a little guy anyway. I'll fit way easier than you would."

Tony blinks a few times and Steve forces his face into something that he hopes is an expression of easy, uncomplicated generosity, because, dear God, if Bucky had any idea what he was helping facilitate—

"That'd be great, thanks," Tony says, finally smiling, and he looks up at Steve. "Only if the captain's all right with it, though...?" He lets the sentence trail off into a question. He's waiting for an invitation.

Tony's mouth is slightly parted. His eyes have gone dark, as dark as the night, and he licks his lips. Steve knows what Tony's thinking about now, and he knows it's the same thing that he is.

Steve smiles back. "I would be more than fine with it."

* * *

They don't waste any time.

In the tent, Tony lays his bedroll out next to Steve's and looks up at him. Steve's sitting on his own bedroll. They're inches apart. Tony says nothing, but Steve can hear his breathing speed up. Tony's stripped off his gloves and coat, and is sitting there, cross-legged, shivering a little in the night air.

The beam of Tony's flashlight, lying on the ground at the head of the bedrolls, casts long, drawn-out shadows on Tony's face, and the shadow of his body stretches out along the canvas of the side of the tent. Steve's shield, sitting as always within arm's reach, reflects the light and shines back at him, red, white and blue. It's almost eerie, a distortion of reality. Excitement knots up Steve's stomach and he realizes he's licking his lips. Tony grins at him, raises an eyebrow, and silently reaches out to flick the flashlight off with his thumb. The tent is plunged into darkness.

It's not too dark for Steve to see, but it is too dark for Tony, and Tony fumbles heading for him, a little awkward, stripping his cowl off for him, kissing him on the jaw, on the cheekbone, before their mouths finally meet and Tony surges against him in renewed confidence. Tony licks into Steve's mouth, hot and wet and real, better than all Steve's memories, because he's finally here, he's finally here again. Steve moans—he can't help it—and Tony groans low in response, dragging them closer together.

When Tony pulls his mouth away he drops kisses on Steve's jaw again and then leans in, burying his face against Steve's neck; his beard scratches at Steve's throat.

"God," Tony breathes, a shivery exhalation of warm air against Steve's skin. "I've missed you, Steve, have I ever missed you."

"I know," Steve murmurs. "I know. I've missed you too."

Tony kisses his way up Steve's throat. His hands are working at Steve's belt and in the back of his mind Steve wishes it didn't have to be like this. He wishes they had all the time in the world, an unhurried stretch of time to explore each other. But this is all they have: furtive, rushed fumbling in the night. He'll take it. It's the only thing they've got.

Tony pulls his head back, and his mouth parts in a grin; his teeth are white. His eyes are wide and dark with need. "Haven't found anyone you liked better in the meantime, huh?"

It's clearly meant to be a joke, or at least half a joke, but Steve answers it honestly. "Haven't found anyone else since you," he murmurs, and he watches as Tony's eyes go wider. "Haven't even wanted to look."

"Oh," Tony says, very softly. His mouth is slack with surprise, like he never expected that, and Steve leans in and kisses the corner of his lips.

Even though he's only had his own right hand for company, Steve's gotten a little better at holding in check some of the more embarrassing physical responsiveness of the serum. Still, it's a near thing not to come immediately as soon as Tony manages to unfasten his pants for him and work one clever hand around Steve's cock. Steve practically whimpers because, God, it's so good, Tony's right here and Tony's _touching him_ and he already knows he's not going to last.

Mindful of the need to keep quiet, he leans in and seeks out Tony's mouth, trying to stifle all the noise he wants to make against Tony's lips. After a few kisses, a few long easy strokes of Tony's fingers on his cock, Tony pauses and draws back.

"You're _lovely_ ," Tony whispers, the words honest and raw. "I feel like I'd forgotten just how good this was. Christ, I wish I could take you to bed, a real bed again. Wish I could see you properly. There's so much I want to do with you."

"Mmm," Steve manages, and after a few shaking breaths he manages not to come at the mere idea that Tony has been thinking about this, that Tony wants more from him. "Tell me more?"

"Well," Tony says, and he knows Tony's smiling from the little quiver in his voice. "Of things we haven't tried, I'd really like you to fuck me."

Oh, God. "I'd like that," Steve agrees—the words feel like an understatement, like nothing can express the roaring desire within him—and he takes a few more steadying breaths.

Tony's fingers are sliding along Steve's cock again, squeezing tight, just exactly in the right place, and that combined with the thought of it—Tony spread out before him, him pressing into Tony, the way he had barely dared to do with his fingers—Steve's going to come in about ten seconds if Tony keeps that up. He feels heat gather and coil, low within him.

Steve doesn't want to come before he at least gets his hands on Tony. He draws back, yanks one glove off with his teeth, undoes most of the buttons on Tony's shirt with single-minded efficiency, then puts his bare palm against Tony's chest, feeling the rigid metal of the repulsor pump underneath his fingertips. Tony gasps and arches into the touch as Steve trails his fingers down Tony's stomach. He fumbles a little with Tony's trousers and then grins triumphantly as Tony's cock slides into his hand, hard, slick with pre-come; Tony is close already. Good.

Tony moans, nearly full-voiced, the sound far too loud in the silence. "Fuck, _Steve_ —"

"Shh," Steve says, because the one thing they actually need here is not to get caught. "Quiet."

He puts his other hand, glove and all, across Tony's mouth, and Tony groans out something inarticulate against Steve's hand and thrusts harder into his fist, like he likes the idea of Steve covering his mouth, and _that_ sends Steve's mind off into half-formed filthy ideas that he'd never even thought to wonder about, stopping Tony from talking with his hand or or his cock, maybe even a gag. Maybe Tony would _like_ that. Maybe Tony would like everything, every one of these infinite possibilities.

Tony's hand tightens on his cock and gives him a few more messy strokes, setting up a rhythm that Steve mirrors, faster and faster until Steve reaches his peak, muffling his cry against Tony's shoulder, coming and coming and shutting his eyes and letting his release take him. Tony comes a few strokes later, shuddering, with Steve's hand still over his mouth.

They sit there, panting, pressed up against each other, Steve's head still tipped against Tony's shoulder, until Tony chuckles under his breath and starts awkwardly wiping them up with a handkerchief in the dark.

"Good?" Tony breathes, as if he doesn't know.

"The best," Steve says, very quietly.

Tony gives him a very small smile, so small that Steve isn't sure if he knows he's doing it. "Well," he murmurs. "Good. We should probably get some sleep," he adds, and he moves off his own bedroll so that he can slide under the blanket. His own blanket.

Steve wishes more than anything that they could share a bed. They can't. He can't cuddle up to Tony, put his arms around him, and sleep like that. They have no privacy. It would be compromising. So he gets under his own blanket, next to Tony, not touching him.

"Night, Tony," he says, quietly, and he tries not to think about how tomorrow is the last full day—the only full day—that he'll have with Tony.

Tony grins a fond, sated grin in the darkness. "Night, Steve."

Under the blankets, Tony's hand stretches out, brushes against his, grips hard for an instant, and then retreats.

* * *

He wakes up the way he always does now, the way he's been trained to: quiet, surreptitious, holding still and feigning sleep, taking in as much of the surroundings as he can. Somewhere outside the tent birds chirp and familiar voices chatter in English; cutlery clatters against cans. He smells coffee. Inside the tent, he hears someone breathing, shallowly enough that they must be awake, and it's another few seconds before he registers that it isn't Bucky. Then he remembers. Tony.

He opens his eyes to find Tony regarding him in the watery, gray, early-morning light. Tony's breath plumes from his mouth in the morning chill. His eyes, dark blue, are beautiful; it's a new experience, seeing him from this close, and he knows Tony is studying him in return. Then Tony smiles, and it's even more beautiful. Something warm in Steve's chest lightens in affection, and he doesn't want to think about where this could lead, because they're in the middle of a war—they can't indulge themselves, and he's a fool even to contemplate it.

"Hey," Tony says, softly, a little ghost of a word. "Did you sleep well, Cap?"

It could be a perfectly innocent question, but then Tony pushes himself up on one elbow, blocking anyone outside the tent from viewing them, and he reaches out with his free hand to run his fingers through Steve's hair, just above his ear, rubbing little circles at Steve's temple with his thumb. Steve shivers and sighs.

"Just fine," he says, his voice coming out of him lower than he meant to, and Tony's eyes flare darker, desirous; that, now, is a familiar look for him.

"God." Tony's murmur is almost amazed. "I can't keep my hands off of you, can I? Sorry."

Steve catches Tony's wrist as he starts to jerk his hand back. "Don't apologize. I— I like it." He feels more than a little awkward, being so plain, so honest, having to put it all in words. Sure, he's been with people—with men—before, before he joined the Army, but the kind of situations he'd found himself in never had much opportunity for talking. No opportunity for... feelings, really.

He'd already had feelings for Tony before he met him, of course—admiration, attraction, hero worship of a man he thought he'd never in a million years be lucky enough to meet. He hasn't even known him for twenty-four hours total, and he has the suspicion he's developing an entirely different set of feelings.

He's falling for Tony.

And from the way Tony looks at him, he thinks maybe Tony—as unbelievable as it is—might be falling for him too.

Tony slides his hand back and now he's holding Steve's hand, fingers interlocked, squeezing tight. He can feel the calluses on Tony's fingers, from guns and armor plates and God knows what kind of scientific equipment; there are a few old burns on the back of his hand. He's lived a long and interesting life, and you can see it on him; Steve likes that a lot. A map. A record. Permanence. His own scars all disappeared after Rebirth, a side effect no one had warned him about. Maybe they hadn't known to expect it.

"I wish," Tony begins and then stops, smiling ruefully, shaking his head.

Steve smiles back. "You wish what?"

"A lot of things." Tony's eyes, cobalt-blue, focus somewhere past Steve's shoulder, like he's trying to look into the future. "Most of 'em are silly. Fanciful. Mainly," he says, and regret clouds his tone, "I wish I didn't have to head back tomorrow, but I don't think I can come up with any excuses to stay, once the Cube checks out. Nothing Fury will buy, anyway."

Steve wants to hold Tony tight, like he can keep him from leaving with his body alone, but he settles for squeezing Tony's hand back, and a tired, resigned smile flits across his face. "I wish you could stay, too," he says, and he feels less silly saying it when Tony's smile brightens.

"You're based in London, right? You and the Invaders?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking." Tony's gaze is intent now. "If you have leave there sometime, I'm— well, I'm in England relatively often, not that I'm allowed to tell you why, and maybe we could—" he pauses, and his face tightens, and he looks away; he's nervous about this too. Steve would never have thought he'd see Tony Stark nervous about... about romance, but maybe he's only nervous when it counts for something. It seems like it counts. Steve still can't quite believe this is happening. "I mean, if you wanted to."

Steve can't stop smiling. "Yes," he says, low and fierce, "yes, of course, I'd love that. But how— how do we even arrange that?"

"Same way any other soldier spends time with his sweetheart," Tony says, with an easy shrug, like the word is simple to say, but his eyes go just a fraction wider, his tongue flicks out against his lips, and he knows Tony was scared to say it, too. Steve's heart pounds in excitement and elation. "You send me a letter and tell me you're arranging for leave and we work something out, Captain." The grin turns a little teasing. "You had no problem finding me for this op, so do you think you can manage to keep in touch with me this time?"

Steve's cheeks go hot and he knows Tony can probably see him blushing. "I couldn't just send a letter to you before. You— you're _Tony Stark_ ," he finishes, and he knows that sounds ridiculous. It had made sense at the time.

"Sure am. Doesn't mean I don't read my mail," Tony says, a grin curling about his lips. Steve desperately wants to kiss him, to kiss all the smugness away until Tony is gasping, breathless in his arms, but he doesn't dare.

"You could have written me," Steve points out, and Tony's gaze darts away; Steve has the interesting experience of seeing Tony looking about as embarrassed as he himself feels. "Don't tell me you couldn't have sent Captain America a letter."

Tony's darker than he is but even so there's a hint of color in his cheeks. "I didn't want to presume."

"Presume away," Steve says, grinning, inviting. "Take all the liberties you like. You are very welcome to." Unless—" he frowns as the thought occurs to him— "unless you think we— they'd suspect something, the censors?"

Tony chuckles. "Steve, I am more than capable of writing the most innocent letters in the world. As far as the Army knows, we met at Jan Van Dyne's party and hit it off and that is God's honest truth. They just don't need to know how well. Why shouldn't two fellas want to meet? There's nothing queer about having friends."

"If you say so."

"I know so," Tony assures him, voice brimming with confidence. And if Tony Stark knows so, well, that's good enough for Steve, isn't it?

"Right." Steve squeezes Tony's hand once more and reluctantly lets it drop. "Time to get on with the day. There's coffee."

Tony visibly brightens at the mention of coffee, but then his brow furrows in an inexplicable glower. "Only if Namor hasn't drunk it all."

"Namor should be asleep now," Steve points out, wondering what happened between them that Marvels never mentioned. Maybe Tony and Namor just don't get on; Marvels probably tried to minimize that. "And you can have my coffee ration if you want. I can do without; it doesn't do anything for me, not since the serum."

Tony's grin now is brighter than anything. "I'm going to like you a lot, Cap."

_I hope so_ , Steve thinks, as they push themselves up and out of the tent, ready to face the day.

* * *

The day is somehow comfortable; everything goes on as normal, with the addition of Tony, as he works quietly by the side of the Cosmic Cube, scrawling down notes, taking pictures of the Cube, waving unidentifiable bits of wire and metal next to it. It isn't usual, of course, Tony's presence—but it feels right, like he should be here with them, like he should always be here.

There's not much to do for anyone who isn't Tony, honestly; at one point Tony's taking more photographs of the Cube from a different angle, still not touching it, and Bucky and Toro are watching, awed, glancing over every so often from the poker game Torch started, the game their attention is clearly not on. (They're playing for cigarettes. Steve's winning, possibly solely because he is devoting so much conscious thought to the game, because he can't just stare at Tony like he wants to.)

A hand waves at the edge of Steve's field of vision, and Steve looks up to see Tony, now all the way out of the tent, grinning and pointing the camera in their direction. "Hey, Invaders!" he calls out. "Smile!"

He takes the picture before Steve is entirely ready; Bucky and Toro, by contrast, are mugging for the camera with the silliest of faces.

"Fury's not going to mind?" Steve asks.

"America loves you, Cap," Tony says, grinning and setting the camera down, and Steve tells himself not to read anything into the amount of affection in that sentence. "They'll be thrilled for more pictures of you fellas. Of course he's not going to mind."

"All right," Steve says, and Tony grins again and turns back to his work.

Eventually the game breaks up, the rest of the Invaders wander off, and Steve walks to Tony's side.

Tony looks up. "Hey there."

Steve crouches down next to him, in the little space that is afforded inside the tent. "How's it going?"

"Almost done." Tony scrawls a few indecipherable words in an open notebook.

The Cube is still resting, uncovered in its crate, with Tony's equipment now scattered around it. Steve wonders how Tony can stand to be this close to the thing, and he suppresses a shudder. Something about it just isn't right. It's unnatural. It feels like the universe shouldn't be this way. He can't really believe that Hydra didn't know what they had. But they must not have.

"You'll be able to transport that tomorrow?" His voice is a little more curt than he intends it to be, and he wants to wince. He doesn't mean to sound hard or cruel, he just... doesn't want Tony to go. But he can't have that. Tony's going back at least as far as the current closest division—heck, Tony's probably going to hand-carry the Cube all the way down to Naples and then out to the States—and the Invaders are scheduled to keep pushing north, or at least Tony hasn't brought him any orders saying otherwise.

Tony doesn't seem to register the tone; his gaze has drifted back to the Cube. Steve kind of wishes he would just get away from it. "Mmm-hmm," he says, abstracted, his attention clearly wandering. "I can carry it out, no problem."

"Are you going to want help?" Steve asks

The look Tony gives him in return is long, languid, lingering, deliberately flirtatious; he looks up at Steve through lowered eyelashes and smiles a smile that takes Steve's breath away. "That depends on what you're offering," he murmurs.

He can't act like this, Steve thinks, he can't. They can't. They'll get caught. But—Steve glances back to check—none of the Invaders are currently visible. No one's watching them. Feeling as though something far more primal than conscious thought is driving him, Steve carefully reaches out and lets his palm settle on Tony's neck; he rubs his thumb just below Tony's ear.

Tony draws a shuddering breath; Steve half-hears, half-feels a small, needy noise gather in the back of his own throat.

And then they're kissing, and somehow his tongue is in Tony's mouth and Tony's hands are splayed across his face, pulling him close, like they could be one person if they just tried. He's in Tony's lap, half-kneeling across him, and through the layers of fabric he can feel that Tony is hard for him, because of him. He rocks up helplessly against Tony, and Tony groans into his mouth and clutches him tighter, and they can't do this, they can't—

He breaks the kiss, and backs off, and for a few moments Tony only stares at him, confused and bereft and breathing heavily.

"We can't," Steve says, and Tony's face falls. "We can't, not like this, not when anyone could see, I'm sorry. But tonight, right? We still have tonight?"

Tony's face brightens and he licks reddened lips. "We have all of tonight," he says, low and rough. "And don't think I've forgotten how many times you can come. I have plans for you, Captain."

Steve has to shut his eyes and take a few deep breaths to avert the suddenly very real possibility that he might come just thinking about it. "Okay," he says. "Right. Okay. The mission."

"The mission," Tony agrees. Amusement flickers in his eyes. "You were saying?"

"I was asking if you needed help."

"Right." Tony straightens up, where he's still sitting, and his voice snaps into an easy, cool, professional tone. "I'm authorized to borrow up to two Invaders to get this back to Naples, personnel assignments at your discretion, but please don't give me Namor again. I could make the trip by myself, easily. I certainly don't need to deprive you of two people, but I suspect that it would go better with one just so we can sleep in shifts. And I can't have the one I want—" Steve's heart pounds in his chest— "so it's really up to you. I'll take whoever you give me."

"Bucky wanted to go with you," Steve offers, and he watches Tony's face cloud in something that looks a heck of a lot like disapproval. "What?" If Tony's ended up hating Bucky, Steve thinks, maybe this isn't okay after all—

"Nothing," Tony says, but it's clearly something, because his face is pinched. "It's just— Christ, Steve, you know they're _kids_ , right?"

It may have been a thought Steve has had himself more than a few times, but it's different when someone else points it out; it feels like something only Steve has the right to notice. He feels himself tensing in defense, coiling up tight. "Bucky and Toro are both eighteen," he says. His voice is clipped. "You know that. I'm positive you've read their files."

Tony doesn't back down. "Yeah," he says, "and I know that means they sure as hell weren't eighteen when you started. Barnes' file said he was training with the fucking SAS before you met him, or did he not tell you that?"

Does Tony think Bucky lies to him? "Yeah, of course he told me," Steve says, somewhere between bewildered and angry. "And Fury told me when he assigned him to me. You think they've never broken regs before, for a good reason? I wasn't even supposed to be a Rebirth candidate, and Fury took me anyway—"

"People lie to try to enlist all the time," Tony says. "Usually the Army doesn't catch them and _keep_ them—"

"Look," Steve says, and it feels like Tony's looking at him and telling him _he_ shouldn't have joined up, that he wasn't good enough, that maybe he's too young for Tony, and anger runs hot through his bones. "Buck's the best goddamn sniper I've ever seen, no matter how old he is, and Toro's a damned good scout, and if you have a problem with that, you can—"

"Oh, I'm planning on taking it up with Fury—"

"Take it up with _me_ ," Steve snaps, "because, goddammit, if you don't trust them to do their jobs, if you don't think I should have made it through Rebirth, if you think _I'm_ too young—"

"Okay, whoa," Tony says, and then there's silence. When Steve looks up, Tony's holding his hands up, palms out. Surrendering. "I never said anything like that," he says, quietly, "and I definitely didn't say anything about you. It's just— they _are_ young." He doesn't say anything about Steve's age. "And I know exactly why Fury did it, but I wish he hadn't had to."

Steve takes one breath and then another, calming himself down by force of will. "All right," he says, trying not to wonder what Tony thinks about how young he is. "All right. I jumped to conclusions. I'm sorry."

"I understand," Tony says, after a pause. "They're your team. You protect them. That's how it works. I'm sorry for doubting you. And if you want to loan me Barnes for the trip back, I would be happy. Honored, even."

He holds out a hand.

Steve brushes Tony's palm with his fingertips, and Tony smiles at him.

"Okay," Steve says. They haven't ruined anything. They're okay. "You can borrow Bucky. Okay. We're all right now?"

Tony's still smiling. "We're all right. A misunderstanding. All is forgiven."

Steve smiles back. They're still holding hands.

_This is going to work_ , he thinks.

* * *

He stays up late enough to see Torch and Toro trade places with Namor and move out to take the first of tonight's watches; Namor heads to his own tent. Over in the equipment tent, Bucky curls around the base of the Cosmic Cube's crate and then switches his flashlight off; the last of the light sources save for the nearly-full moon visible between the branches overhead. Steve is the only one who can see at all well now, he thinks; super-soldier vision has its advantages.

When he heads to his tent, Tony's already there, half-asleep but quickly waking, and he pushes himself up on one elbow. The movement Tony makes is alert at first, efficient, trained, and Steve would bet anything that the shifting under the blanket is Tony reaching for his gun.

"Who's there?" Tony asks, a sharp question, and then he blinks a few times and the tension seems to go out of him as he slumps back against the bedroll. "Oh, it's you, Steve. Christ. Warn a fella, would you?"

Steve slides in next to him; somehow Tony is warm in the chilly winter night, although admittedly he's still wearing everything save his coat, including his boots. "Who else did you think was going to be in my tent?" Steve wonders.

"It's a reflex," Tony says. He doesn't sound sorry, and Steve doesn't expect him to; vigilance is a good thing. Steve hadn't thought Tony was quite that twitchy, though.

In the darkness, he can just barely make out Tony's profile, and Steve smiles, even though Tony can't see it. He pulls off his gloves, shoves the cowl back, and sets his palm against Tony's cheek; Tony's beard scratches at his skin. "You can stand down," Steve murmurs. "It's only me."

He feels Tony smirk against his hand. "Should I make a joke about certain portions of my anatomy standing at attention?" he murmurs.

Steve can't help but chuckle. "Only if you're willing to provide proof."

"Definitely willing," Tony says, his voice no more than a whisper, and he leans in to kiss Steve.

Words become almost entirely unnecessary after that.

Last night they had been hurried, rushed; tonight, by mutual, silent consent, they go much more slowly, even as Steve is painfully conscious of the fact—and Tony has to be as well—that now is not an ideal time or place to linger. But it's war, and for all either of them know, they might never meet again. Steve desperately wants to make this count, to give them both something to remember, so he presses kisses to Tony's face, captures his mouth for long moments, lets his hands slide inch by inch across Tony's body like he can memorize Tony by touch alone.

They can't really undress, but Steve doesn't let this stop him: he untucks Tony's shirt, slides his hands up the planes of Tony's chest, the muscles underneath his fingertips quivering in anticipation. Tony's hands are fumbling first with his own pants, then with the fastenings on Steve's pants. Steve slides his hands around Tony's side, over his ribs, his palms framing Tony's spine, holding him. Tony sighs and relaxes into the embrace even as he keeps working at their clothing in the dark. They're too close for Steve to see what Tony's doing, so he tries to draw back, wanting to see.

Tony shushes him. "Stay there," he breathes, warm air against Steve's ear. "You keep doing what you're doing."

So Steve tucks his head against Tony's neck, runs his fingers along Tony's spine, slowly, and Tony moans and arches into the touch, with a shuddering shiver. Tony works his hand into Steve's pants, carefully easing his cock out, stroking him a few times, slow and easy. Tony's hand is warm and a little bit slick around his cock, just like Steve likes it, like Tony knows exactly how he likes it even though they've only done this twice before. Then there's something else pressing against his cock that isn't Tony's hand. It's hotter, slicker. As Tony chokes back a bitten-off groan in his ear, Steve realizes he's got both of them in his hand, he's jerking them both off, and God, Steve wants to _see_ that, he wants to watch Tony stroke them both with those elegant, gorgeous hands of his—

"Tony," he groans. "Please, Tony, let me see—"

He feels Tony's breathy laugh against the side of his neck. "You like that idea?"

He's tangling his hands in Tony's shirt but eventually he gets enough space between them that he can look down. It's too dark for anyone but Steve to see and even for him it's all shades of gray, but he can see the shapes of them. Their cocks are pressed together in Tony's hand, his fist tightening around them both, slick and hot and with the perfect amount of friction. Tony's thrusting up against him, rubbing up against him, groaning. He's close, Steve knows, and then all Steve can picture is Tony coming on him, and that's it, that's it, Steve's coming and coming and Tony's leaning forward and kissing his mouth. He's too lost in pleasure to kiss back, but Tony's touching him everywhere and it's perfect—

And then Tony's coming, his strokes slowing into jagged shuddering thrusts, but he doesn't let his hand on Steve's cock slacken, he doesn't stop, and Steve's still hard, and Steve whimpers and comes again, and again—

By the time he comes back to himself, Tony's wiped them both up and is lying there, his head on Steve's shoulder. They'll have to move apart before they actually fall asleep, of course, but it's... nice. Better than nice.

"I could get used to this," Steve finds himself saying. He whispers it, like it's a secret he's giving up to the night, setting it free.

Tony lifts his head. A very small smile plays about the corners of his mouth. "It's not going to be easy, you know. This. Us." He sighs. "It's all lies and secrets and more lies."

"That's to other people," Steve points out. "Not to us. Not between us." It's not like he's happy that he can't tell anyone. Hell, if one of them were a girl the entire world would probably be thrilled about their romance, but they're not and it won't be. But that's just how the world works.

Tony reaches out and traces the shape of Steve's face, smoothing out his eyebrows, down to his cheekbone, over the crease between his nose and the corner of his mouth. "No, but... it'll make it hard."

"It'll be worth it," Steve says, firmly, because it will be. He knows it. He still almost can't believe he isn't dreaming. Tony Stark wants him, and the real Tony Stark is a thousand times better than any of those fantasies he'd spent years constructing. "It _is_ worth it."

Tony smiles. "I'm feeling optimistic, believe it or not."

"Oh?"

Tony's grin is actually cheerful. "You haven't tried to murder me. You're already better than my last date."

Aghast, Steve can't decide whether Tony's joking—he hopes he is, dear God—and then he remembers the last few issues of Marvels. Gialetta Nefaria. Oh. It's entirely real. "We need to do something about your standards."

He hopes he's not being too presumptuous with the joke, but Tony just grins wider. "If by that you mean that you want to ruin me for anyone else, you're certainly making a good start." And then he bites his lip and looks away, like that was too much to say, too soon. But it can't be too soon if it's how they feel, can it?

"I like you a lot, Tony." The words come out of him, raw and honest—there'll be no hiding here, not for them—and Tony looks back at him again, eyes wide.

"Likewise," Tony says, with another faint smile.

Tony leans in and kisses him lightly, a brush of lips against lips, before retreating to his own bedroll, and Steve smiles.

* * *

The gunshots wake him.

Outside the tent there's yelling, half of it in German—which is never, ever a good sign—and then Namor's voice cutting over the others, ringing out.

"Invaders!" he yells. "Hydra is here!"

And if that's Namor warning them, Steve thinks, as everything within him settles into a calm, clear readiness, then that means that whoever Hydra sent got past Torch and Toro at the edge of the camp, but he can't think about that now. He can't worry about them.

They're here for the Cube. They know what the Invaders took, and they're here to get it back.

Steve gropes for his shield, feeling the familiar edge of it underneath his gloved fingertips. He doesn't remember putting his gloves back on last night but he guesses he must have, before he fell asleep.

The opening of the tent is occluded by two figures, dark-clad. Steve catches a glimpse of an all-too-familiar skull-and-snake motif high on the shoulder of the one on Tony's side of the tent, the man who is even now unholstering a pistol—

Tony sits up and puts three rounds into the man's chest without hesitation. Bright blood sprays across the tent canvas. The man staggers, falls backwards, and then doesn't get up. Good.

There's not enough clearance to throw the shield without bringing the entire tent down on them, so Steve lunges to his knees and then forward across the tent. He slams into the other man, shield-first. By the time the blow connects, Steve is on his feet, and the edge of his shield is under the man's jaw.

The man goes down, gurgling, and Steve tramples him, bone cracking under his boots, as he hurries out of the tent. Tony is right behind him.

The camp is chaos.

Torch and Toro are nowhere to be seen. Namor is trading blows with another Hydra goon, this one armed with a knife. His opponent seems to have gotten Namor's hat, because Namor's strange pointed ears are plainly visible in the moonlight as Namor dances back to avoid a powerful stab.

"Tony," he orders. "Help Namor! Then find Torch and Toro! Figure out how many people we're dealing with!"

Tony gives him a tight nod and runs.

But the real problem is Bucky. He's just outside the equipment tent, and he's fending off attacks from not one but two Hydra agents. They must have figured out that's where the Cube is.

Bucky's never going to be tall, but he's got a lot of muscle for his size, he's been trained by the best, and he's faster than he looks. That still doesn't mean that two against one is ever going to be a good idea. Steve is running across the camp, but the man behind Bucky has a garrote, and Bucky's busy punching the other guy as the man behind him drops his arms over Bucky's shoulders and yanks the wire across his throat.

The man's lifting Bucky backwards, into the air, and Bucky's legs kick out against nothing, Bucky's got his own hands wrapped around the man's, trying to pry the wire out of his fingers, trying to loosen his grip.

Steve throws the shield. It sails, spinning, a perfect throw—

It hits Bucky's assailant in the side of his head. Blood shines in the moonlight, and the man sags forward. Bucky drives a vicious elbow into the man's ribs and slithers down, out of the now-lax hold.

The other Hydra agent grabs the Cosmic Cube out of the crate. Blue light plays over his dark uniform and he allows himself a flash of a triumphant grin before turning and running, Cube clutched in his right hand.

Steve's fingers flex, searching for the shield—which is still next to Bucky. He's got nothing to throw, Hydra disarmed Bucky, and Namor and Tony are still taking on Namor's opponent; it looks like Tony couldn't get a clear shot and has brought his own knife, because Steve spies another glint of metal.

"Cap, go!" Bucky yells. His voice is a hoarse rasp. "He's getting away! Go after him!"

Steve runs.

He knows the woods better than the other man does, but it's dark between the trees, and he's leaping over roots and downed branches, practically flying over little ravines as he runs up the hillside. His heart's pounding in his throat. He can't let him get away. He can't let the Nazis have the Cosmic Cube. It's not going to happen.

The forest clears at the very top of the ridge, moonlight shining onto long grasses. At any other time it would be picturesque, but the Hydra agent is standing there in the middle of the clearing, Cube held out in his palm, and Steve hopes to hell the man isn't wishing for anything with it right now.

Steve gathers himself and leaps, slamming full-force into his opponent. The Cube flies out of the other man's hand and they go down together in a tangle of limbs, rolling. Steve takes an elbow to the teeth and punches back as good as he gets, hard into the man's solar plexus, and he feels the wind go out of his opponent in a rush of breath.

The Cosmic Cube is a few feet away, starting to roll down the opposite, mostly cleared, side of the slope. It glows and glitters an alien blue in the night.

Steve puts a knee into the man's chest and stretches his arm out for the Cube.

His fingertips just barely brush it, and it's like getting an electric shock.

He crawls off his downed opponent and gets a good grip on the Cube just as his opponent gets much the same grip on Steve's ankle. Steve tries to kick him off.

He has the odd sensation of something else in his mind, some other entity, half-sentient, watching over his shoulder.

He can't let Hydra take the Cube. He needs the rest of the Invaders. He needs help. If the Hydra agent gets his hands on the Cube again—hell, Steve doesn't know what he's wished for, and it might already be too late—

Steve kicks his way out of the man's grip, finally, and pushes himself to his feet. He's holding the Cube high in the air, clutched in his hand. Light shines blue between his fingers.

_Help me_ , Steve thinks. _Please, somebody, help me_.

The thing inside his head that isn't him says _yes_.

And then the sky above him opens up.

The sky is as bright as day, brighter than day, as bright as looking into the sun, and it hurts Steve's eyes. He squints, looking up into it. There's a darker shape in the blinding whiteness, something that looks like it's falling, faster and faster.

It looks human-shaped, Steve thinks. It's wearing black clothes.

That's all he has time to think, because then the sky snaps shut into nighttime darkness.

And a man lands on him.

The Cube flies out of Steve's hand and tumbles across the grass, and no, oh no, the Hydra agent's going to get it—

But Steve can't make a move, because he's falling in an entirely different direction, as the stranger's arms go around him and they're flipping backwards and over. Out of the corner of the eye he sees the Hydra agent picking the Cube up—

The stranger pressed against him isn't trying to fight him; he's just trying to hold on until they stop moving. Judging by the fact that the Hydra agent has the Cube and is starting to run, Steve's going to assume that the stranger isn't Hydra; they don't usually just abandon each other. Not without good reason.

Steve finally comes to a skidding halt and shoves the stranger off him. The man rolls a few more feet away, down the hillside, and he comes to rest on his stomach. He starts to push himself up, dark-haired head down and half-turned away, so Steve can't make out the man's face. The uniform is new to Steve, too. Well, at least he's not Hydra.

The man is not part of any organization Steve has ever seen. He's wearing a strange black uniform that's almost skin-tight, with white gloves, white boots, and a white equipment harness over his chest. He has a variety of pouches—also white—at his waist. He has a boot knife, a gun in a shoulder holster, and a larger firearm—it looks a little different from anything Steve has ever seen, in a way he can't quite identify—holstered on his thigh. The only sign of rank or unit affiliation on him is a shoulder patch depicting some kind of stylized eagle.

That doesn't exactly help Steve distinguish friend from foe, since Germany's got eagle insignias of its own.

And then the man lifts his head, and turns toward him, and—

It's Tony.

He asked the Cosmic Cube for help, and he got Tony Stark. 

For a few seconds, Steve honestly can't say which of them is more surprised. Then he decides that that honor goes to Stark.

All the color drains out of Stark's face and he blinks a few times like he can't believe what he's seeing. His jaw is hanging open. His eyes are wet. He's on the verge of tears.

He watches Stark's mouth move, watches it silently shape one word: _Steve_.

Stark doesn't even say his name aloud, but he's looking at him like a drowning man looks at his rescuer. He's looking at him like Steve is everything to him, like Steve is everything in the world that matters, that has ever mattered. Tony—his Tony, the one he knows—has never looked at him like this. It's simultaneously heady and terrifying, to be this man's sole focus.

"Tony," Steve says, gently, because what else can he say?

A pained look crosses Stark's face, like for some reason he hadn't thought Steve would say that, but it's just his name. There's nothing strange about that. Nothing should be strange. Everything about this is strange.

"Hell of a time for an Extremis hallucination," Stark says, under his breath, and he says it like he wants to cry. His voice has changed; his accent is a little different. He's thinner than he should be; Steve can see it around his eyes, in the hollows of his cheeks. His voice thickens as he speaks, and his eyes are— his eyes are— God, he looks like he's been through hell. He looks like maybe he's still there. "Extremis is acting up anyway. Seems like that portal knocked out my satellite connection."

Steve has no idea what he's talking about. "This isn't really the time—"

"You're not _real_ ," Stark says, wild-eyed, voice raised. As Steve comes closer he sees Stark's shaking. Stark raises his hand, palm out—an odd gesture—and then he stares around himself at the grass like he expects something else to be here, something else besides him. "The armor didn't make it through the portal with me? God. Like this isn't bad enough. You're not fucking real, you're _dead_ , you're in my head again, so kindly tell me whatever it is you're supposed to tell me and disappear, because I can't _do_ this again—"

Is Stark _insane_? Why is he dressed like this? Why does he think Steve isn't real? What the hell is going on?

"I'm real," Steve says, urgently. "I promise, Tony, I'm alive, I'm real—" and again there's that wave of pain, regret, disbelief— "but now is not the time to discuss it because there are Nazis getting away with the Cosmic Cube, so if you could help—"

The Hydra agent is still running down the hillside. With the Cube. It'd be a clear shot if Steve had anything to fire.

Stark laughs, a harsh sound, and he pushes himself to his feet. "Oh. Nazis." His voice is dry, incurious. "Guess that explains why the network's out. Just like old times for you, huh?" he murmurs. "Right. Hill will be so happy when I tell her I got to field-test the new pulse guns against _Nazis_ —"

The weapon he draws, left-handed, isn't the gun in his shoulder holster. He draws the other weapon, the one that was at his thigh, aims—and he fires a bright burst of light. It's a ray gun. It's like something out of Amazing Stories, Steve thinks, awed.

The Hydra agent collapses a few hundred feet down the slope, body still twisted around the Cube that's clutched in his hand.

Stark has a ray gun. He's wearing a uniform Steve doesn't know. This Tony Stark is from _the future_.

"You're here from the future," Steve says, wonderingly, and the look he gets in reply is... impatient? Like Stark expects him to know that.

Even with the impatience, Stark's still wide-eyed, like he can't believe any of this is real, like he isn't sure how to act around him. "Yes? Of course I'm from the future. Are you feeling all right?" It's a strange combination of tentative and familiar.

"Fine," Steve says, still confused. He thinks maybe he's missed something.

Ray gun still in hand, Stark is picking his way down the hillside. "Come on!" he calls out, when Steve doesn't move. Steve has no idea what's going on. "You should know how a Cosmic Cube works by now," he adds, and Steve doesn't, of course he doesn't, but Stark said it like he thinks Steve is some kind of expert, and nothing is making any sense. "We have to get to the guy before he wakes up and figures out he can tele—"

In a flash of light, the Cube and the Hydra agent both disappear.

"—port," Stark finishes, and he shuts his eyes. His face has fallen into graven lines of misery. Sadness has worn into him like water on a riverbed. "Fuck. There goes our way home, huh?"

Steve understands none of this, except that the Cube is gone. "Tony," he says, and Stark just looks even more miserable. "I haven't understood a thing you've said."

Stark takes a breath and seems to compose himself, standing up a little straighter. "Right," he says. "Okay. You're not a hallucination. I can do this. Obviously—although apparently not as obviously as I would have thought—we can use a Cosmic Cube to get us home. To our respective homes, because you are clearly not from mine, much as I wish you could be. It doesn't have to be this Cube—" Steve wonders how in the world there can be more than one Cosmic Cube— "but I'm not sure what else we can find in this time period. I might be able to build something. Depends on what I can cannibalize. There aren't even _transistors_ yet. God, I wish the briefcase had made it through the portal. Could have sworn I had grabbed it. What year are you from?"

He still doesn't understand half the words coming out of Stark's mouth, but he thinks he understands the last question. Stark wants to know what year it is. "1943."

"No, no!" Stark sighs, exasperated. "Not what year it is _now_. What year you're _from_. Are you sure there's nothing wrong with you?" He runs his gloved hands through his hair, making it stick up every which way. "I can't deal with this. Please be all right. One of us has to be."

"I'm sorry, Tony," Steve ventures, more confused than ever. "I don't know what else you want me to say. It's 1943. December. We're in Italy, just outside Cassino. I don't understand."

"1943," Stark repeats. "You're here with... Bucky? The Invaders?"

"Bucky and the rest of the Invaders," Steve confirms. "I'm one of the Invaders," he adds, feeling like Stark is waiting for him to say something else. He watches as Stark's face falls, twisted in sadness. Steve has no idea what any of this is about. "Is that... not the answer you wanted?"

Stark looks at him, his face pale in awful, tortured realization. Whatever he's thought of, he hates it. "You're not from the future?"

"No," Steve says, as patiently as he can, still mystified, because isn't the answer to that obvious? "I'm not from the future."

Stark's eyes have gone too wide again, white all around the irises, and he's staring at Steve like either he's insane or the entire world is insane and he can't tell which.

"Then how the _hell_ ," Stark whispers, "do you know who I am?"

Maybe they're both insane.

"Of course I know who you are," Steve snaps back, bewildered and more than a little offended, because how could Tony in the future just forget him? How could he forget what they are to each other? How could he think Steve would forget him? "You're _Tony Stark_. How in the world would I _not_ know who you are?"

They stare at each other, a long frozen moment of silence, a moment that is broken by the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hillside.

"Cap!" someone shouts. Tony. It's Tony's voice. "Are you all right? Did you get the Cube? What the hell happened? There were lights in the sky and—"

And then he stops dead, and Steve knows Tony's seen them. When he looks over at Tony, Tony's staring at both of them, jaw dropped, skin far too pale under the drying blood and purpling bruises.

"I lost the Cube," Steve says. "Hydra got it. But I... might have made a wish on it first."

Next to Steve, the other Tony Stark—the one from the future—takes several steps back and looks like he's about to faint. He mutters a word under his breath that sounds like _multiverse_ , and the way he says it, it sounds like an obscenity.

"Goddammit," Stark says. "I am really, _really_ not supposed to be here."


	2. Tony Stark, Earth-616

_Network connection lost. Network connection lost. Network connection_ —

With a single thought, Tony mutes the Extremis error message that whispers in his ears. His satellite network is gone. There are no satellites. It's 1943. It's four years before transistors. Fourteen years before Sputnik. And thirty-two years before Tony should have been born.

And yet here Tony is, looking at himself standing next to Steve Rogers in the middle of World War II, like he belongs here. He tries and fails to focus on his other self, because he can't possibly look at Steve, Steve _alive_. He can't do that and hold on to what's left of his mind, of his sanity, of his control. The inside of Tony's brain is a roar, one thought repeated, the thought that's been suffusing him since he fell through the portal: _he's alive he's alive he's alive oh God he's alive he's here he's alive_. Even without looking at him, everything within Tony reflexively orients himself toward him, like a magnet, like a compass seeking north, because it's _Steve_ —

It isn't Steve. He takes a breath and repeats the words to himself. It isn't.

It's certainly _a_ Steve Rogers—the resident Steve Rogers of whatever Earth Tony's found himself on. But it isn't _his_ Steve Rogers.

_His_. Tony wants to laugh at the idea that Steve was his. Steve was never his. Steve could never have been his. He used to dream that one day, maybe it could have happened. Maybe he could have been good enough. And then the SHRA happened, and then the war, and then— and then—

_He's not yours_ , Tony tells himself, as his gaze drifts helplessly to lock with Steve's. _No_ , he tells himself. _At least call him Rogers_. _You don't know him. He's not your Steve. And you know he's not your Steve because you_ killed _your Steve, remember?_

Oh, he remembers. It's not like he's ever, ever going to be able to forget it. Extremis puts all the feeds in his head, 24/7, high-definition, five hundred channels all showing Steve bleeding out on the courthouse steps. He can watch them any time he wants. With each viewing Tony's chest aches, hollow, ripped apart, like he's taking the goddamn bullets himself. It should have been him. Rewind and replay and replay and replay. He can fast-forward through his own memories: Steve's body laid out in full uniform on the helicarrier, shield on his chest, with Tony's Extremis-perfect vision blurred by tears; Steve's body lying on the coroner's slab as Sharon Carter hits Tony in the face and tells him he doesn't have the right to feel this way; Tony standing on a podium at Arlington and choking on his own grief; Steve's body sinking beneath the waves at the last, final, secret funeral.

This man isn't Steve. He's younger than he's ever seen Steve, younger even than when he first met Steve—God, they were all so young, then, so young and so innocent. They had no idea what was coming. It would make sense, if it's 1943. Two years until Steve goes under. Rogers' face is set into those familiar commanding lines, set but not worn; this is a man who's spent only a few years fighting, and not fifteen years and change, almost five in this war and then ten with the Avengers. His face is smooth, unlined, bright with— well, currently bright with what looks like a mix of curiosity and shock. When Tony looks at him, though, it's all too easy to see Steve the way he last saw him, cold and gray, the life leached out of him.

But it's not Rogers who speaks first. It's Stark.

His other self, Tony notes, is coatless in the chilly night. He's not wearing anything that would indicate military rank—Tony guesses somehow he hasn't been drafted—and his shirt is blood-spattered. He has a pistol in one hand and he's slowly lowering it.

"Well, this'll make a hell of a story," Stark says, whatever _that_ means, and it's Tony's own voice filtered through a bygone accent he's never had, diction he associates with crackling old radio and newsreels and _Steve_. He looks Tony up and down, thoroughly, then glances sidelong at Rogers. "You had the Cosmic Cube and you wished for... me in a very tight uniform? I'm flattered."

Rogers scowls. Tony's seen that face a thousand times, he thinks, the familiar pang of grief now carving newer, rawer wounds, and Tony acknowledges that it's pretty epically fucked up that he's been missing _Steve's angry face_ but, well, nothing about the two of them was ever normal, was it?

"I wished for help," Rogers says, and the mild irritation quickly fades into confusion; his brow furrows. "I wasn't very specific."

Both of them turn appraising gazes on Tony.

"Hi," Tony says. "I'm from the future. Not your future, though."

Stark squints in thought and it's like looking into a mirror. He knows that face. "How do you figure that?"

Tony smiles bleakly. "Because I'm from the year 2008. I'm not even born for decades yet. I'm not supposed to be here." He spreads his hands wide. "This is all history to me."

And now they're both staring at him. Great.

Then Rogers, because he's never been stupid, eyes him narrowly. "But you recognized me?"

Tony realizes, then, what he has to do. He has to lie. His throat is tight; he's stepping into a new world and poisoning it with his presence, and this is why he could never have deserved Steve, because Steve never once believed that the right thing to do could also be the worst. But he has to lie. He can't take the risk of ruining this world's future. He can't possibly chance making this war worse for them. Steve Rogers has to stop Zemo's plane. He has to take that fall and go into the ice. But he can't know about it. He can't even suspect it, or history might be changed. So Tony can't say _for half a century everyone thought you died in the war but then we found you_. Tony can't tell him how he knows him, because their meeting, their shared history, is bound together with his wartime fate. And that means that, as far as Rogers is concerned, Tony doesn't know him.

"Sure, of course." Tony plasters a smile on his face, the way he smiles for the cameras, and he thinks about the time when Steve was nothing more to him than a man whose posters lined Tony's wall, a man whose real name he didn't even know. His hero. He tries to summon up how that felt. "You're famous. You're Captain America." He smiles more broadly and tries to infuse the smile with every ounce of blind hero-worship he can muster and God, he hates himself so much right now. "It's such an honor to meet you, Captain. You were always my hero when I was a kid."

Technically, it's not a lie. It's just omitting certain elements of the truth.

Rogers blinks a few times. "But I thought you were looking at me like you knew me," he says, hesitantly, and then he looks again at Tony's awe-struck face. Because he can read Steve Rogers like no one else ever could, Tony can pinpoint the exact moment when Rogers buys it, believes it, believes it because he's willing to trust him, because he really is that wholeheartedly good—or at least he was before Tony got to him—and something inside Tony wants to curl up and die because he's been here fewer than five minutes and he's already lying to this world's Steve Rogers and nothing was ever, ever supposed to be like this. Rogers' voice trails off. "Never mind," he says. "I must have been mistaken."

Inwardly, Tony sighs in relief. Rogers isn't buying him completely—of course he isn't —because he's not totally naive. There's still doubt etched into his face, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way he's standing angled away. But there's belief there too. It's enough. Rogers has fallen for the basic premise, at least. Tony keeps looking at him and keeps smiling and lets shame and self-loathing churn in his gut.

There, now Rogers thinks what he's supposed to think: that Tony only recognized him because he's Captain America. And if he wonders why Tony thought he might have been familiar with Cosmic Cubes—well, maybe he'll assume that he ran into them later. He's clearly not going to ask right now why Tony also thought he was from the future, and Tony is grateful for that. If he does ask, Tony will tell him there will be another Captain America, and that will even be the truth.

Stark holsters his gun. "Right," he says. "Our sentries are fine." He gives Tony a glance like he isn't sure he wants to commit to their names in front of him. "The Hydra agents were more interested in getting by them than hurting them, thank God. There were five men total. You got two, I got one, Namor got one, and the last one—"

"Got away," Rogers concludes, grimly.

Isn't it a little early for Hydra? It doesn't sound right, Tony thinks. Sure, most of the Hydra bigwigs were and are Steve's longtime opponents— _Steve no longer has opponents, Steve is dead, you saw it_ , he tells himself—stretching all the way back to the war, but Tony's pretty sure that they didn't rebrand as Hydra until being actual Nazis stopped working out for them. Then again, Tony himself apparently lives in this time period, so who knows what else is going to show up?

"Yeah." Stark sighs. "So they sent one for each of us, except me."

"Guess they didn't know about you." Rogers says it with some brightness. Trust him to be the optimist.

Judging by the morose set of his face, Stark doesn't find this news heartening. "They knew about the Cube, and they have the Cube again, and that's more than awful enough for me. And now there's—" he waves a hand at Tony— "me, and I think this could be going better. We did get a mysterious briefcase, though."

Rogers frowns. "A what?"

"I didn't try to open it yet," Stark says. "It fell out of the sky as I was coming here."

_Oh, thank God_ , Tony thinks, and he exhales. He did grab the armor after all. It came through with him. Maybe there's a way home yet. He has the suit. He can do anything.

Stark looks curiously at him. "You know what it is?"

"It's mine," Tony says, a little too sharply. "It followed me through the portal. And I'll thank you not to try to open it." He could, too; Tony's biometric lock is obviously coded to himself. Well, and to someone Tony never thought he would see alive again, because Tony the sentimental idiot could never bring himself to delete it. He hopes Rogers won't think to try. He'd rather not expose them to any more information than he absolutely has to, and he can hardly imagine that he's Iron Man in the 1940s. What would he have made a suit out of, actual iron?

Stark draws up, and Tony recognizes the flash of hurt on his face, quickly covered. "Well," he says, "you're not very helpful for someone who was sent here as help, are you?"

"Look, I didn't volunteer for this," Tony says, and as they both turn identical unimpressed stares on him Tony guesses that World War II is probably not a good time to come off as a guy who doesn't want to help out. "I mean, there's not a lot I can tell you. I would really like to go home."

No, he wouldn't. Home is a job he never wanted, the aftermath of a war he never wanted to win, and the looming sense, growing every day, that maybe now would be a good time to crawl back into the bottle and never leave. Home is hallucinations of his dead friends. Two weeks ago he cut off half his own foot to save the fucking world, the world that still blames him for Steve's death, and they _should_ —

He doesn't want to be there. But he's not sure he can take this for much longer, either.

Rogers looks at him like he at least understands the basic impulse. "We all would. But this is war, and you're stuck with us for the foreseeable future, Mr. Stark." He makes a face at the name, as if it's suddenly just occurred to him how weird it is that there are two of him.

"This will be interesting," Stark says, dryly, and Tony kind of wants to punch him.

"Come on." Rogers' mouth twitches, in a hint of a smile, and something within Tony lights up, twists in pain, and burns out, because _Steve is smiling at him_ , but Steve is dead _._ Tony takes a shaky breath and Rogers continues, oblivious. "You can meet the rest of the team."

* * *

He follows Stark and Rogers back up the hill, grabs his armor case at the top, and then drops into the end of their single-file line picking through a forested slope in the dark. When the forest clears out, there's the remains of a camp: knocked-over tents, some kind of smashed and splintered crate, and three other Invaders next to a line of bodies—dead, dying, or maybe just unconscious. Tony doesn't know if they're all dead, and it doesn't seem like any of the Invaders care. Tony knows Steve was always against killing, even in the war. Steve never killed, but that was what his teammates were for. He wonders if Rogers is the same.

Tony walks a little closer and finds that his question is partially answered by the state of the bodies. Two of the Hydra agents are clearly dead, close-range bullet wounds carving out huge messy craters. Rogers wasn't carrying a gun. Tony knows then that Rogers is perfectly willing to let his friends get their hands dirty for him. Some things never change.

"Invaders." Rogers clears his throat. "The Cosmic Cube was, unfortunately, lost, but I seem to have summoned another Tony Stark. From the future."

Tony can't quite see them all yet; they're not that close to him. The closest man is Namor, wearing possibly the most clothing that Tony has ever seen Namor wear; he has no bare skin visible at all, save his face. His mouth curls in a disappointed sneer. Great.

"Oh," Namor says, somehow managing to pull off imperious and blasé at the same time. "Another one of you."

And, of all the unfair things in the world, Tony has to pretend he's never met Namor. "Hi," he says, with all the cheer he can muster. Like he's thrilled to meet Namor, hero of World War II. Right. Namor, war hero. Not Namor, giant asshole, who once ripped Tony's helmet off and held him down underwater. "I'm Tony Stark from an alternate future. You must be Namor. It's an honor to meet you."

Namor frowns. "How do you know who I am?" He still sounds vaguely insulting—he is, after all, Namor—but he's not quite as unkind as he could be. He must be pleased by the reverence.

Tony grits his teeth and makes his smile as bright as possible. "The Invaders are very famous in the world I come from. When I was a kid I learned about you all in school. You, the Human Torch, Toro, Bucky, and Captain America. Spitfire and Union Jack, too," he adds, though he doesn't see either of them about.

"Who?" Rogers asks.

Tony fumbles for the names from Steve's well-worn war stories; even that memory is sharp, a knife-slash of grief down to his bones. "Uh... Falsworth. Lady Jacqueline Falsworth was Spitfire. As for Union Jack, at first he was her father, Lord Montgomery Falsworth, and then Union Jack was Falsworth's other child, his son Brian. Lord Falsworth passed the name on when he couldn't fight. I don't remember the details. Something about injuries sustained in a battle with a vampire."

"Vampires?" Stark looks both dubious and simultaneously alight with excitement. "You don't say! I've met the Falsworths, but never a vampire. God, imagine that in Marvels. I'd love to meet a vampire or two." His eyes are bright, apparently at the prospect that vampires might exist. Tony's beginning to wonder what the hell is wrong with this guy; he thought _he_ was an adrenaline junkie, but even he draws a line at vampires. Stark pauses and seems to recall the actual point. "Anyway, no, they're not Invaders. Why would they be?"

_Why wouldn't they be?_ Tony wants to ask, but he keeps his mouth shut; he doesn't know anything about this universe.

"Hey!" There are two more figures standing behind Namor; the voice is from a kid who can't be older than eighteen, and behind him a familiar-looking blond. "You know our names! Our nicknames!"

The kid has to be Toro; he'd died before Tony ever had a chance to meet him, but Tony has, after all, seen Steve's photographs. He knows the blond guy is Jim Hammond, the original Human Torch. Tony's met him a few times—though it was a while ago, back with the West Coast Avengers. He's met him more than a few times if you count Vision; although, androids being what they are, Tony's not exactly sure how Vision counts. This Torch seems more natural than Tony remembers him; there's nothing of the sense he sometimes gets with LMDs, that he used to get with Vision or with Torch himself, that prickling not-quite-human consciousness.

On a hunch, Tony reaches out with Extremis—and there's nothing. There's nothing electronic whatsoever. He's not an android.

Huh. Well, that's different.

Tony recovers and keeps smiling. "Of course I know your names. You're Toro and that's Torch."

" _I_ didn't know their nicknames," Stark mutters from somewhere behind him.

Tony's getting the sense that his counterpart doesn't know any of these people half as well as he does. Not even Rogers. It's a strange thought—a universe where he barely knows Steve. At this point the message in his brain that's looped _your fault your fault all your fault_ for six months shades into _but it's not like you really knew Steve either_ , and Tony knows _that's_ not true. They knew each other as well as any two people ever could, and that was what made it so much worse: he knew what Steve would say, how he would react, how he would strike back. The futurist's curse, a modern Cassandra, a chess game twenty moves out. That was the tragedy of it—not that he hadn't known, but that he _had_. He'd suited up and gone in knowing there would be nothing between him and Steve after Registration, and the awful truth is that it would have been worth it. Burn one friendship for hundreds of lives, for thousands of lives, for a world where everyone lives and there are no Sentinels in the sky. Burn it and never look back.

It would have been worth it, if he'd had to pay for it with his own life.

Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten to pick whose life was the price.

He takes a ragged breath. _Hold together_ , he tells himself. _You can handle this. It's just another universe. It's not your Steve. You can't think of him that way. You've got to get home._

The final Invader comes around from behind one of the ruined tents and Tony has to make a conscious effort to keep breathing because it's Bucky Barnes. Not that he would have expected anyone else, but, well— he's never seen Bucky like this. Sure, Rogers might be a younger version of himself, but he's still him. This is Bucky Barnes, in a bright blue and red uniform, masked around the eyes; he's eighteen at the most and he looks cheerful and incredibly excited to see Tony. He looks like— like someone who has never been the Winter Soldier. For all that this is war, none of the horrors have touched him. This is Bucky Barnes before they broke him.

Tony's had data structures on the brain. He's been trying to figure out if his Extremis-enhanced memory these days is a stack or a queue. LIFO or FIFO. He's been leaning toward the former, and so he's expecting his associations with Bucky to be the most recent times he's seen him: sometime after giving him the shield. Maybe when he was sitting there at his side making sure all the subliminal programming was worked out of his brain. That would have been reassuring. Nice, even. Instead, the memory that comes crashing to the forefront of his mind is from the first time he met Bucky.

They were trying to kill each other. Tony remembers it—not like yesterday, not anywhere near that pleasantly remote, but like it's happening to him right now. Bucky's sitting on his chest with a gun in his hand, aiming at Tony's bare, exposed face. Tony's gauntleted hands are curving around either side of Bucky's skull, repulsors live, whining in a familiar high-pitched charge. Bucky wants to kill him for killing Steve and Tony deserves it, God, _he deserves it_ , but Tony's faster now, Tony's fucking _transhuman_ , and the only thing keeping him from liquefying Bucky's brain is that Steve would never forgive him. Would never have forgiven him. Steve can't forgive anyone anything, anymore.

Tony's hands are shaking, his fingers are splayed wide, and underneath his SHIELD-issued gloves he can feel the underarmor beginning to pool in his palms. _Hold together_ , he repeats. He doesn't need flashbacks on top of everything else.

If this universe is anything like his own, in two years Rogers won't be the only one falling. Bucky will too. And there's something to consider. Even though the adjustment had been hard at first, there was always something good for Steve in the future, in the Avengers. They'd done that much for him. This universe's version won't have Tony, clearly, as his other self is already here, but, well, it wasn't like he was a good thing for Steve in the end, was it? 

But there's nothing at all for Bucky to look forward to. Bucky gets to spend decades as a brainwashed Soviet assassin and then get his memories back just in time to pick up his dead friend's shield. There's nothing good about that. He loses everything and gets nothing in exchange.

And it all has to happen.

Tony can't tell him. Tony can't stop it.

So he takes a breath and he smiles politely. "You must be Bucky Barnes, huh?"

And whoa, Bucky just gives him this dazzling, overawed grin, entirely out of place on the face of someone who has a very nasty rifle slung across his back. Like he's been dying to meet him. "Wow," he says. "Imagine that. I got to meet Tony Stark _twice_."

Tony glances back at his counterpart, who tips his head to the side; Stark's mouth twitches in suppressed amusement.

"Am I famous?" Tony wonders. It's not like it's a new thing for him—God, even in his own head that sounds arrogant—but he's been assuming that if he's on the front lines here he's not exactly making the headlines Stateside.

Stark holds up his thumb and forefinger. "Maybe. Little bit." The smile playing around his mouth finally breaks out in a full grin.

Tony's about to ask him more when Rogers clears his throat.

"Right," Rogers says, straightening up. The word rings from his mouth. Even though he's so much younger, he's still got that goddamn commanding presence that no one else ever had just like Steve did, that no one else will ever have. You look at him and you think _whatever he wants, that's what I'll do_. You look at him and you think _it would be an honor_. Tony had almost forgotten, so soon, what it felt like, and his throat closes up, because it's only been six months and how can he not remember? How is it slipping away?

Lost in yet another spiral of grief, he almost doesn't notice when Rogers keeps talking.

"Much as I'd like to stay and talk," Rogers says, and he smiles at Tony and Tony forgets how to breathe, "we can't stay here. Hydra knows where we are. We pack up, we move out now, we pitch camp somewhere safer." He turns to Stark. "I don't think you'll be leaving us quite yet."

Huh. So his counterpart's not an Invader. Why is he here?

"Agreed," Stark says, briskly. "I'm not leaving without the Cube. Or at least without something to tell General Fury."

Well, Fury sure got a promotion. Tony supposes Stark is some kind of consultant. That still doesn't explain why he's famous enough that Bucky's staring at him like he's some kind of superstar.

"We don't know how close Hydra is," Rogers continues, to the group, "or if they're sending another team—"

Tony can actually answer that one. He might not have satellites, but he has the armor, and even when he's not in it he can take advantage of the local proximity sensors. He shuts his eyes, breathes in, breathes out, and reaches for the armor's sensor suite. The data flows into his head, a topographical map unfolding before his eyes. Nothing human-sized on infrared within five miles. Further out, to the north there's a larger knot of people, probably in a building from the way the life signs are clustering and stacking. He has local storage of maps, thank God; overlaying them on his best guess for their current position says that's probably a monastery. _Destroyed in WWII and rebuilt_ , the map notes, dryly, and Tony guesses he's here before that.

He's getting some kind of energy readings from there. He's not sure what it is yet. But whatever it is, it's big and it's nasty.

There are men east of them somewhere, little clusters of them in a line, stretching as far as Tony can pick up with local sensors. Some kind of defensive fortification, he guesses. Whether they're friendlies, he doesn't know; he sure doesn't keep World War II military maps in local storage. But knowing the Invaders, this is probably enemy territory.

He opens his eyes. "They're not close," he says. "If they are coming after us, they're not doing it right now. Closest Hydra presence is the monastery."

And now they're all staring at him. Whoops. Maybe that was one of the things he wasn't supposed to do.

"How do you know that?" Rogers asks, awed, and Tony wants to laugh because Steve could never fucking stand Extremis.

Tony shrugs. "I, uh," he says. "I have my ways." So maybe they'll think he has some kind of special knowledge of the future. He doesn't want to explain any more than he has to. "No guarantee that they couldn't send a team, though, so moving still sounds like a good idea to me."

Rogers' gaze is now tempered with a little bit of suspicion. "Right." Has Tony turned this world's Steve Rogers against him already? And then, thankfully, he looks at the rest of the team. "Pack up and move out."

* * *

The Invaders break camp with the efficiency Tony would expect from... well, from the military, and Tony ends up with one of the packs in addition to his armor case. It's heavier than he was expecting. He'd offered to take one, and Namor had looked at him and sneered and asked _how much can_ you _carry?_ And so Tony's snide reply— _more than you think_ —had earned him this lumpy and lopsided bundle. He knows he's not in the best shape he could be, physically, and he sure looks like he isn't, especially when compared to Stark—his counterpart has the serious muscle of someone who's been fighting this war on the ground—but Extremis negates a multitude of sins. Tony will never be at super-soldier peak human strength, but he's stronger than he looks.

It still doesn't mean that this is any fun.

He could carry even more, of course, with the suit. But that would mean telling them about the suit and, well, he's trying to minimize the damage he does to their future. It's not like he hasn't ruined enough in his own universe.

He thinks possibly they want to keep an eye on him—he doesn't blame them—so they've sandwiched him in the middle of the group: Rogers, Stark, and Bucky ahead, and behind him Torch, Toro, and Namor. They're heading north. Something is odd here, he thinks, and then he realizes it: no one's flying. Maybe Torch and Toro are walking because they'd need to turn the flame on to be airborne—which is not compatible with nighttime stealth—but that doesn't explain Namor. The Namor Tony knows wouldn't just walk. Walking is for unfortunate _humans_ and he's positive he knows Namor's opinion about the non-Atlanteans of the world.

He returns to contemplating the fact that Torch and Toro haven't lit up at all. This Earth's Torch isn't an android, but that shouldn't rule out mutation, cosmic rays, or any one of a myriad of possibilities—Tony can name a hundred ways to get pyrokinesis without really trying. It's a popular power. So's flight. Flight practically comes in the superhero starter package. At least, it does back on good old Earth-616.

He turns the idea over in his head, and a connection quietly clicks into place in the back of his mind.

"Hey," Tony says. "This is going to sound weird, but... can any of you fly?"

"Fly?" Bucky asks, confused, and he turns around as he walks to eye Tony dubiously.

Tony is guessing that's a no. "Yeah," he says. "Flying." He holds his arms out to the sides in a miming airplane gesture that he hopes existed in the forties. It's sure not how he flies.

Near the head of the group, Stark raises a hand in response without stopping. "Sometimes." His voice is a lazy drawl. "Not particularly well yet, and not right now. Didn't want to bring the armor. Too hard to lug around." He sounds almost contemplative. "Now I'm wishing I had."

Well, that answers the question of whether he's Iron Man and whether other people know about it.

"It's really keen," Bucky says, like he's sharing a confidence with Tony. "The Iron Man suit, I mean. I've got a picture of it in Marvels I can show you when we stop."

This is the second time someone's mentioned Marvels, whatever that is.

"Sure," Tony says, a little confused. "But none of the rest of you can fly?"

Bucky squints. "We're not all _Iron Man_ , Mr. Stark."

"No, I mean—" Tony throws his hands in the air. "I mean, by yourself, flying. Not in a suit."

Bucky's still staring. Behind the domino mask, his eyes are wide, amazed. "Can we fly where you come from?"

He can tell them this much. The Invaders are famous. It implies nothing about his present, about the future of the war, about their fates. Tony nods. "Namor can fly. Could fly," he corrects himself, because he doesn't want to give away their current statuses if he can help it. "Torch and Toro could fly and control fire."

"Wow! What about me?" Bucky says, excitedly. "Could I fly too? What could I do?"

Tony bites back the words _singlehandedly commit several major assassinations in the latter half of the twentieth century_ and is grateful Bucky is too high on his own enthusiasm to notice the slight hesitation in the response. "Uh," Tony says. "You were a really good shot?"

He watches Bucky try not to pout.

"Oh." Bucky sighs.

No powers. Maybe no one with powers at all in this world? That is _bizarre_. No superheroes. On the other hand, no supervillains. Maybe.

"But Captain America," Tony ventures, and ahead of him Rogers' cowled head moves, like he's listening. "He's still— there was still a super-soldier program?"

Bucky nods proudly. "He's stronger than anyone!"

Well, at least there's one thing that went right in this universe.

"Wow," Toro says from behind him. "Imagine that, Torch. You and me, flying! Just like in the comic books! Wouldn't you love to live there?"

_You wouldn't_ , Tony thinks. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned it. It's cruel to make his own world sound amazing when it's anything but.

Rogers hasn't tried to shut any of them up yet—about now, Tony would be expecting some reminder about silence and covert ops, but it seems like, for whatever reason, Rogers is letting him get away with more than he would expect. It's like he doesn't know how far he gets to push him. Tony decides that Rogers must not know his counterpart well at all, because with Steve the answer for how far to push was clearly _until everything breaks_. Tony takes a breath and tries to force down the sudden, familiar pang of sadness; he decides to press on with the questions.

"So what's Marvels?" Tony asks, because he's been getting more and more curious.

It's not Bucky who answers him; ahead of him, Stark laughs the laugh of the truly delighted. "My magazine," he says, voice brimming with possessive joy. He sounds the way Tony feels when he talks about the armor. There's an almost contemplative pause. "Well. It used to be my magazine, anyway. I shut it down to join the war effort."

Tony pictures himself as J. Jonah Jameson. It's a horrible thought. He shudders. "You were an... editor?"

Another laugh. "Are you kidding me?" Tony can see Stark shake his head. "No, no! Adventurer! Marvels: The Magazine of Men's Adventure." He can just barely see Stark swing his hand out in front of his face, left to right, sketching out a headline.

"Adventurer?" That sounds like— well, like too much fun to be an actual job. "What does an adventurer do, exactly?"

Stark flashes him a self-satisfied grin over his shoulder. "Anything he wants!" He's still grinning. "Basically, I traveled the world in search of mysterious artifacts, trying to get my hands on them before the Nazis did. Jungles, ancient temples, treasure—all that exciting stuff."

"Oh my God." Laughter bubbles up within Tony, and he can't remember the last time he was actually happy. "Oh my God, you're _Indiana Jones_. That's _beautiful_. I'm so jealous." If that had been a career option, he would definitely have considered it.

Stark frowns. "I'm what?"

And that, of course, reminds him of how he used to have to explain things to Steve, and someday it's going to stop hurting, but that day is not today. Tony sighs. "Nothing. It's a film. It will be a film. Never mind."

"All right," Stark says, bemused. "So that's me. Well, me and Pepper and Rhodey and Jarvis, but these days Fury mostly calls on just me to consult on whatever strange artifacts they find." Tony guesses that means he was here for the Cosmic Cube; maybe Stark's only just met Rogers. That's weird. And it's deeply weird to think that all his friends are alive now on this world, that they all coexist with the Invaders in World War II. Stark's still talking. "So what do you do, on your world?"

He knew this one was coming. Unfortunately, he still doesn't have a great answer.

"Classified," Tony says, trying to sound polite and apologetic. "Mostly. These days I head a government organization. Non-military. You won't have heard of it yet."

"Ah." Stark clearly wants to push him, but isn't going to.

"You're a pretty good shot for not being a soldier," Rogers says, from the head of the line, like he's trying to feel him out, and the attempt is so ridiculously unsubtle. He is so very _Steve_ , Tony thinks, which makes sense, because of course he is, and he tries not to let his mind snap back to the war, to the last time he saw his body, to _fighting Steve_ —

It doesn't work, of course.

"Yeah, well," Tony says. "I've had a lot of practice."

They fall silent after that.

* * *

Dawn is barely breaking, washed-out winter light pale over the hills, when Rogers finally brings the team to a halt. The valley doesn't look much different than the last one they were in, and when Tony reaches out for Extremis—less useful now in the absence of modern networking, of course—he sees they've traced a semi-circle around the monastery, coming up on Monte Cassino on the other side. There are still no other signs of life anywhere closer than the monastery. Good.

Rogers casts an eye over the team. Everyone looks more than a little bit tired. They've been marching all night. "Here's good enough," Rogers says. "We'll get some rest and consider our options. You all can sleep. I'll take watch; I don't need as much sleep as most people." He looks over at Tony, and then at Stark, like he thinks neither of them know that, and huh, he and Stark must _really_ not know each other.

"Yeah, yeah," Stark says. "You're built better than the rest of us mortals. I did see the Rebirth specs, remember?" He muffles a yawn with his fist.

"I'll join you on watch, if you want." Tony hears the words coming out of his own mouth without any conscious thought toward saying them. "I don't need to sleep right now either." 

It's true that it had been morning when he'd been plucked off his own Earth and so he's had the benefit of a full night's sleep—or as much as he ever gets, these days—behind him. It's also true that he's been using Extremis to fuck around with his various bodily needs. He was always jealous of that particular super-soldier feature.

Forgoing unpacking entirely, the rest of the Invaders are solidly asleep on the ground in under five minutes. Namor's a little apart from the group, Toro is using Torch as a pillow, Bucky's on his side curled around his rifle, and Stark is resting possessively next to two of the packs, hand flung out across one of them.

Rogers is looking down at Stark; a fond half-smile ghosts across his lips. It's an ephemeral, insubstantial thing, something hidden, something private. He doesn't know Tony's looking at him. Tony isn't meant to see this. And maybe Stark isn't meant to see it, either.

They can't know each other that well at all—not if Rogers is assuming Stark doesn't know what the serum did to him—but, well, Steve never looked at him quite like that, either. He would have noticed. Tony's not sure what this means. It's not his place to ask.

Rogers' head snaps up, and Tony realizes he's been caught staring.

He doesn't call him out on it; he just tilts his head away from the center of the camp and says, "Walk the perimeter with me." It's not the full-on Cap voice, but it's a little more than an ordinary request.

So Tony nods and follows him out between the trees.

"You're not hungry?" Tony asks, because he knows what Rogers' metabolism must be like, if this Earth's super-soldier project had similar results to his. He runs hot, he runs fast, and Tony hasn't seen him eat anything since Tony got here. Rogers must be starving. "I know you need to eat more than most people, especially after physical exertion."

Rogers blinks. "How do you know that?"

Shit. "You're famous," Tony says, with what he hopes is an unworried shrug. "And like I said, Captain, I was a big fan. I used to read all the comic books, when I was a kid. Used to have a picture of you on my wall, even." He adds another smile, a calculated one, trying to summon up all that hero-worship he used to have. It's almost embarrassingly easy. Steve Rogers has always been handsome, no matter what universe, and this is a Steve who isn't looking at him through a decade of pain and anger and broken promises. This is a Steve who's looking at him like he might still like him, and everything in Tony hungers for his approval. He wants this man to like him.

In fact, for a second it looks like Rogers is looking back at him exactly the same way, his face open and unguarded, bright and awed—maybe even a little like he's checking him out, but that can't be right.

And then Rogers' gaze drops away and he huffs out an embarrassed laugh, bringing his hand up to hide his face. It's not a reaction Tony was expecting. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "It's just— it's funny, I guess. See, _you_ were always my hero, from Marvels. I read every issue. And now you're here saying you used to be _my_ fan, where you came from, and it's just—" he grins again— "it's real strange, Mr. Stark."

"I'll just bet it is," Tony agrees, and his mouth shapes a smile that he barely feels.

Tony can't stop looking at Rogers, and he has the oddest feeling that if he just stepped closer, if he smiled wider, if he said something low and sweet and charming, Rogers would look at him and say _yes_. He used to get the same feeling with Steve, sometimes, but it was never quite like this. It was only faint enough that he could hope for it to be true; it was nothing worth risking their friendship over. Steve was more... guarded. Rogers wears his heart on his sleeve and everything on the surface. No lies. No lies between them, between him and his counterpart.

It used to be like that, with Steve.

Or at least he was the only one lying, eh, Iron Man? He wonders, sometimes, how long he would have kept telling Steve he was his own bodyguard if Molecule Man hadn't taken the choice away.

Maybe he was always a liar.

But looking at Rogers now, it's like looking at a ghost; it's like a second chance held just out of reach. This isn't his Steve. He'd had his chance. Or maybe he'd never had a chance at all, but he has none now. Steve's dead. Steve's gone. Steve will never know how he felt, he thinks, and he wants to kick himself for the utterly trite thought. But it's true, nonetheless.

He should have said something.

He'd always thought he'd have another day.

They were Avengers. They always came back to each other. They'd fought, but they'd always made up. He'd thought Registration would be like any other fight they'd had. They'd feel awful, but in the end there'd be apologies, tearful smiles, maybe a manly handshake. It shouldn't have been like this. Hell, they've all died and come back to life before. Not even dying should have stopped them. It never did before. But it's been six months, and Steve is dead and gone, laid to rest under the waves where they found him. Tony sat by his body for so long that even without Extremis he can remember every cut, every wound, every rip in the uniform, everything Tony had fucking done to him back when he'd thought it was about winning and losing. He'd been wrong. Steve's really dead. He's not coming back this time.

Maybe it's better this way, better that Steve never knew. It would have just been one more thing for Steve to hate him for. It's not like Steve would have loved him back.

The feeling had faded, anyway. Even Tony couldn't have sustained ten years of pining full-force. Not with the way they'd fought, anyway. It's just that sometimes it keeps cropping up again.

God, he misses Steve.

Tony swallows hard. He can do this. He can get home. He can keep going. He can keep surviving.

So he fumbles for one of the belt pouches on his uniform, fingers clumsy with the gloves on, because he's pretty sure he approved the new high-calorie ration bars for field duty and— yep. His fingers close around a foil-wrapped bar. He tosses it to Rogers. "Here, catch."

It falls neatly into Rogers' hand, and Rogers holds it up and squints at it. "What's this?"

"Food," Tony offers. He knows the SHIELD ration bars all taste like shit, but at the same time he's positive that the government has made great strides in military food supplies in the intervening decades and it'll probably taste better than what they've got.

Rogers shrugs, unwraps it, and takes a bite. His face almost immediately brightens as he chews and swallows, and Tony warms to see it, the way he always does because there's some short circuit somewhere that goes right to _I made Steve happy_. Even now.

"Hey," he says, surprised. "This is pretty good. This is what people eat in the future?"

Tony laughs. "Only if you're in the field and you're part of SH— the organization I head."

Rogers squints again at Tony's belt. "You got any more of those?"

"A couple more." Tony can't help but smile. "You can have 'em if you want 'em." Because he'll apparently just give everything he has to any Steve Rogers, without question. It was never a question. Not with them.

Rogers is still squinting. "What else do you have in there, anyway?"

The list of SHIELD standard field gear—thank you, Extremis—drops into Tony's conscious mind. "Mostly ammo," he says. "A flare, grenades in a couple of varieties, and, oh, right, the new first-aid kit." He pauses, when Rogers says nothing. "Why, what do you have in your pouches?"

"Spare ammunition for Bucky, mostly." Rogers tilts his head, acknowledging the similarity. "Pack of Lucky Strikes."

"You _smoke_?" Tony suppresses the incredulous chuckle, but, man, Steve never mentioned that about the war. Tony supposes everyone did. He can't even picture it. Cap with a cigarette. Maybe Steve didn't smoke; maybe only this one does.

Rogers looks at him like he doesn't know what merited that response, and of course he doesn't. "Yeah...? You want one?"

Tony shakes his head. "No, thanks. Not one of my vices." He might have a healing factor these days, but not everyone needs to be the next Wolverine.

Rogers chews the ration bar in contemplative silence.

Tony expects questions about the future, about the war; he's already steeling himself not to give into them.

"So," Rogers says, "you going to help us find the Cosmic Cube?"

Tony half-smiles. "Yeah. That's the idea."

Rogers smiles back. "Good," he says. 

Tony has to change the subject. "Your Tony Stark was assigned to investigate the Cube you found?" Rogers nods. "You must have been pretty psyched, finally getting to meet your hero."

He tries not to think about how he felt, that day on the submarine. The greatest day of his life. He knows what what the worst day is now.

Rogers frowns, and Tony realizes he's just used slang from the future. He used to try not to, for Steve, a long, long time ago. 

"I mean, happy," Tony clarifies. "Happy to meet him. Sorry."

Rogers smiles and then looks away, awkwardly, embarrassed by how he feels; for anyone else he'd be difficult to read, with the cowl on, but Tony's had a lot of practice. "Yeah," he says. "Very happy. It wasn't coincidence, though; I asked for him because I knew this was his job these days. I met him at a party, nearly two years ago. The night before I shipped out. We... we took a liking to each other. He... said I should call him if I found something strange. I was staying with the Van Dynes, that night, and they were hosting that party, so I suppose I really have them to thank—"

"Van Dyne?" Tony asks, surprised. "Like Jan Van Dyne?" They've got everyone in this universe, he supposes. 

Rogers blinks at him. "Yeah, that was her name. You know her? Tony knows her too."

"I know her," Tony confirms, with a grin, and then he stops, because it's 1943 and he can count backwards just fine. "Wait, you shipped out in '41?" _That_ isn't right.

"Beginning of '42," Rogers says, frowning. "Why, is it not like that in your universe?"

"Nope," Tony says. "Where I'm from, you joined the Army at the end of 1940." He's positive about that. Maybe that's why Rogers looks so young; he hasn't even been at war as long.

Now Rogers is staring. "In your world, I joined up before America entered the war? Before Pearl Harbor was attacked?" An awful hope glimmers in his eyes. "Are you telling me that in your world it wasn't—?"

"No," Tony says, and Rogers sighs. "I'm sorry. Pearl Harbor still happened. But you were still active before it; you just weren't... overseas." Steve had mostly been fighting homegrown supervillains, he remembers. Maybe in a world without superpowers there had been less pressure on the Army to develop Project Rebirth, so that the project hadn't gotten off the ground until the US had formally entered the war.

"Oh." Rogers is silent for a while. "I thought maybe in your universe it was... better."

Tony sighs. "I wish."

There are so many things he wishes for. He can't have any of them.

"Well," Rogers says. "Good to know, at least."

Rogers hefts his shield and turns, walking a straight line through the forest. Their perimeter.

Tony follows, because doesn't he always?

_Not yours_ , he tells himself, and he doesn't know if he believes it.

* * *

The watch passes with no further incident, and he and Rogers head back to camp, where the Invaders are waiting. They've put the tents back up in the meantime. Stark's propped up on one of the packs reading a musty old book; Tony can only make out flashes of Gothic script before Stark closes it and nudges the rest of the Invaders away from their card game. Tony's briefly glad for Extremis; he can record Namor playing poker forever. Namor's idea of a poker face seems to be "permanent haughty scowl." Tony wants to laugh.

Stark puts the book down, wipes his hands on his thighs, and stands up. "So, Cap, any thoughts on finding our wayward glowing cube?"

"Hmm." Rogers glances over... at Tony. "I thought I'd defer to the experts. You've seen the Cosmic Cube in your world, Mr. Stark?"

"Director," Tony says absently, and then he winces. How the hell did he ever keep any secrets? He coughs. "Uh. Yeah. I have definitely seen Cosmic Cubes in action before."

"Cubes?" Stark asks, eyebrows raised. His face is alight with interest. Tony knows that look. Stark's trying to think this through, fit the facts into a theory. Analyze. Synthesize. He supposes every version of him is a futurist. "There's more than one?"

Now Tony's staring. "Of course there's more than one. They're man-made."

Stark frowns. "That can't be right." He bends down and picks up his book; he pages through it again. "The Cosmic Cube is a legendary artifact. That's like saying you can build the Holy Grail." His hopeful gaze says that he desperately wants that to be true, too.

"I don't know about that," Tony says, "but where I come from, there are man-made Cubes, and there are Cubes from... other places." He's not sure this world is ready to know about the Kree and the Skrulls. He sure doesn't want to be the one to tell them aliens exist. "Still created, though. It's possible that one of those found their way here a while ago and gave rise to your legends." He shrugs. "But where I'm from... yeah. People make them."

Rogers' eyes narrow. "These people got a name?"

What the hell, it's not like they exist here in World War II, is it? No harm in telling them that. "Advanced Idea Mechanics."

And Stark... starts laughing. "AIM? Oh, God. You're joking." He peers at Tony's face. "You're _not_ joking?"

What the fuck, is _everything_ from his time period here all at once?

"I'm not joking," Tony says, firmly, while his brain remains stuck on the idea that AIM exists in the 1940s here to to such an extent that his counterpart would have heard of them.

Wait, he thinks. AIM was Strucker's brainchild, wasn't it? They were Hydra's weapons development arm. They might have been founded later, though. God, of all the times not to remember Steve's war stories.

Stark wipes away an actual tear from his eye. "They're... they're _incompetent_ ," he says, like it's the worst pronouncement he can possibly make, and then he starts laughing again; the sound has a disbelieving, half-hysterical edge. "AIM," he repeats, and he's shaking his head. "Christ."

"They're idiots," Tony agrees. "But, you know, even a stopped clock, et cetera, et cetera."

The other Invaders have gathered around them now.

"What do you think they're doing with the Cube?" Bucky asks.

Tony shrugs. "Whatever they want." He knows that's an unsatisfying answer. "I don't know enough about their motives to speculate, assuming it is AIM at all. On my Earth, they didn't exist now, and as far as I know there were no Cosmic Cubes in our version of the war."

"But you've seen people use the Cube?" Rogers presses, and Tony nods. "So what do they do with it?"

"The last time I heard of a Cosmic Cube in use," Tony begins, and then, oh fuck, he remembers exactly what it was, fuck, fuck, fuck. "It was. It was being used to— to reverse brainwashing and severe amnesia. Fixed everything that was broken, gave him his memories, his sense of self. Worked well, from what I heard. I wasn't there for it, but I've seen the result."

_Don't look at Bucky_ , he tells himself, and his fingers curl into his palms, hard. _Don't look at Bucky_.

It's only because he's looking at his counterpart that he sees Stark's face pale, going ashen and sallow as soon as Tony says _reverse brainwashing_ , and there's something going on here but hell if he knows what. After a split-second Stark looks less... affected... but still pale. Tony kind of wants to ask, but he doesn't want to give up any information reciprocally about the brainwashing, and yeah, that's not going to work out for him.

Rogers hasn't noticed anything wrong. "That seems more benign than I can imagine Hydra being."

Tony tries to smile; it's small and pained. "Yeah, this wasn't them. This was the good guys." The best of the good guys.

"So," Stark says, and there must still be something wrong with him, because he looks like absolute shit; his skin is still gray and maybe a little clammy. "Any ideas where the fella with the Cube went?"

"Could be anywhere in the world," Tony says, but he holds up a hand when Rogers' and Bucky's faces start to fall; Stark's looking through him like he's not even tracking, not even listening. "But I've seen reflex teleportation before. First-time teleporters. They go somewhere they think is safe. Assuming he didn't end up at, say, his mother's house, my guess is that it's somewhere he was supposed to report to. Maybe even the monastery itself." Given the energy readings he's been sensing from the monastery, it's more than just a guess. But he can't exactly tell them that. Rogers brightens and nods, but Stark just looks sicker and sicker. "So at this point, the question is—" and, okay, Stark is listing to one side and Tony has to say something— "I'm sorry, but are you all right?"

Stark nods weakly. "I'm f—"

He doesn't finish his sentence. His hand splays across his chest as his knees go out from under him and he folds; Rogers barely manages to catch him in time, arms wrapped awkwardly around him as Stark slumps in his grasp.

It's his heart, Tony realizes. He knows that. He's _felt_ that.

Goddammit.

Of _course_ it's his heart. He is Tony Stark, after all.

"Tony!" Rogers cries out, face pale and drawn with tension. "Tony! What's wrong?"

Coming away from his chest, Stark's hand flails weakly. "In my pack. I need— I'll talk you through it—" His face contorts in pain. "Cables," he gasps out. "Portable battery. Should be— fuck, I don't know where it ended up." He wheezes. "Don't have— don't have a lot of time."

"Bucky, go!" Rogers calls, and Bucky starts to move.

"Wait!" Tony says, and as Bucky halts, Rogers lifts his head. His gaze is agonized, wild-eyed and betrayed, like Tony's just said they should let him die instead. Now is not the time to argue. There is no time. Tony turns to Stark. "It's your heart, right? Is it an implanted battery?"

Stark blinks a few times at him, glassy-eyed.

"Focus!" Tony snaps out, with the voice that makes Avengers and wayward SHIELD agents alike sit up and pay attention. "Answer me!"

Stark breathes in, shallow and ragged. "Battery," he mumbles. "Yeah. Need—" he tries again to point at the rest of the camp— "Need t'— need to charge. Heart. Ffff."

Tony looks around the camp. Everything is still mostly packed. Whatever they need, they won't find it in time, and Stark is really not in a state to talk anyone through hooking him up to it.

His armor case, on the other hand, is maybe twenty feet away. And hell, it's not like he hasn't done this before. He knows how to charge his own goddamn heart. And he knows how to do this to other people, with the suit, with Extremis. He stopped a man's heart once. _It was expedient_ , he'd told Steve. He'd started the guy's heart again—so really, what was the problem? And then a week later he'd stopped his own heart to save Steve's life.

It was about then that Steve had quit talking to him. And then Registration happened.

Tony exhales hard. So much for secrecy. "Right. Someone get my briefcase. Hurry."

Rogers is still staring at him, mouth half-open.

"I'm going to save him," Tony says. His voice is hard, sharp. "I know exactly what I'm doing. Do you trust me?"

Rogers says nothing.

" _Do you trust me_?" Tony repeats, and he has no right to demand this of this man, this stranger who doesn't even know him, especially not when the man who did know him would no longer have said yes. But there are no other options.

Rogers nods once, tightly.

Tony's voice comes out of him in a snarl, a tangle of raw feeling and adrenaline. "Then someone bring me the case. And lay him on the ground. Quickly."

Kneeling, Rogers carefully eases Stark down, and Tony kneels next to them. He knows the ground's cold, but he can't feel it through the SHIELD uniform. Rogers' hands are visibly shaking. Stark's face is nearly gray. His eyes are falling shut; every so often they flicker open, an unfocused stare of glassy dark blue. Tony braces himself on the ground against the sudden vertigo, because that's his own goddamn face, and he knows he's had worse than this, he knows he's had exactly this, too many times to count, but he's never had to look himself in the eye during it.

Barnes presses the case into Tony's outstretched right hand, and Tony yanks off the uniform glove on his left hand with his teeth so he can thumb the lock. He can unlock it without his hands, of course, but that will just freak the Invaders out more, and he needs his hand free anyway. Armor shines, vivid red and metal-bright, under Tony's fingers.

"Get his coat and shirt off," Tony says, as he pushes his sleeve up. He needs bare skin for this. "I need to see what I'm dealing with."

"Thought you said you knew what you were doing," Rogers mutters, but he's working at the buttons of Stark's overcoat. And then he looks up and freezes, because Tony's calling up the underarmor, liquid gold sliding across his arm, washing down his wrist, pooling in his palm and coating his fingers. "What the hell?"

"No time to talk, Captain," Tony says—and that really is the truth—and he holds out his hand. The gauntlet forms up around him, pieces of armor rising from the case and drifting through the air to snap into position. Safety, it says to him. Power. He feels like he can fix everything, when he's in the suit.

He can't, of course, but it's a nice feeling.

He flexes his fingers. And then he looks down at Stark's bared chest and winces. "You poor bastard," he murmurs. "What the hell did you _do_ to yourself, huh?"

Rogers is still staring wide-eyed at the gauntlet. "He calls it a repulsor pump," he offers. "I don't know much about it. He... never wrote about it in the magazine."

The metal plate is implanted in Stark's chest, directly over his heart. Unlike Tony's recent artificial heart, the location of the charging port isn't immediately obvious on this one; the only thing marring the smooth surface of the plate is a hinged panel, fastened closed. That's got to be it. Extremis whispers back the results from the armor's medical scans: there's some kind of battery under there.

Tony flips the panel open with his gloved hand—

—and there's Stark's heart there, in all its bloody glory, beating slowly, weakly, behind glass. Oh, God. Tony can't decide whether he's terrified of the utter fragility of it or if he wants to be sick at the macabre, visceral horror. Maybe both. Metal lines the inside of the carved-out circle, and there are labeled battery terminals on the edge of it. Positive and negative. It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out.

He knows more than a little about charging himself up, and he knows this is going to hurt like a son of a bitch. When he'd restarted the Crimson Dynamo's heart, it had been a single shock, like a defibrillator, but that's not going to be good enough here—Stark needs a continuous feed of power to charge the battery to keep his heart going. He needs it fast, because he's almost running on empty, and Tony knows from bitter experience that the faster the charge, the greater the pain. Tony's a futurist, and he doesn't like the future he's seeing, the one where Stark's body arches away from him and Tony loses his grip. And if Tony's hand slips—well, Stark's _bare heart_ is right there. It's not going to end well.

All of this passes through his head in seconds, and he reaches out and brushes his gloved hand against Rogers' shoulder. It's the first time he's touched him, Tony thinks, and he shoves that thought away hard.

"Captain," Tony says, sharply, and Rogers looks up. His face is drawn in concern, but he nods. "I need you to hold him down for me." Rogers nods again, and Tony continues. "It's going to look bad. It's going to hurt. No matter how it looks, no matter how much you think I'm hurting him, you need to keep him from moving until I say otherwise. You with me, Cap?"

The nickname falls out of his mouth without him meaning to say it; Tony supposes it's better than accidentally calling him _Avenger_. Or any of their other, fonder nicknames. In his memory, Steve smiles at him, smiles and says, _you know, nobody's called me Winghead like you just did—_

"With you," Rogers says. His voice is tight, and he drops his hands to Stark's shoulders, a firm hold.

Tony taps Stark's cheek with his gauntleted fingers; Stark mumbles and tries to turn his head away. He doesn't manage more than a shudder. Extremis tells him Stark's vitals are dangerously unstable. Yeah, yeah, great. Peachy.

"Ready?" Tony asks, not sure if Stark is still aware of anything, and he slides his hand down Stark's chest to the pump. Metal scrapes against metal. "You probably know this already, but this is going to hurt a hell of a lot."

Stark hisses through his teeth, and he's awake after all. "Gonna," he slurs. "Gonna scream. Too much noise. Gag— gag me?"

_Well, at least he's realistic about his pain tolerance_ , Tony thinks grimly, and he nods and shoves his discarded glove into Stark's mouth. Best use for the uniform he's found yet. Stark bites down. Rogers is looking a little green, like he wants to be sick, but his grip on Stark's shoulders hasn't slackened. Extremis flashes critical medical warnings at the edge of Tony's vision. Now or never.

Tony's fingers find the battery terminals, and the repulsor charges up, low, its hum barely audible, its light a dim but constant reflection off the metal of the pump. "Three," he says. "Two. One. Now."

He fires.

Stark's eyes go wide and he yells into the glove, a muffled scream of pure agony. Tony watches him tense, watches him try to rise up against Rogers' hands and then sink back into the dirt. Tony's own hand is motionless over Stark's heart as power flows into the battery. He's always had steady hands; it was more or less a requirement for the job. Well, one of the jobs. He imagines it like he's crafting something, like this is the final weld, the one that has to be perfect.

"You're killing him!" Rogers' voice is hoarse, wrecked, and Tony doesn't look up. He can't look up. He has to stay focused.

"I'm saving his fucking life," Tony snarls. "Hold him!"

Stark's stopped screaming, but it sounds more like he hasn't got the voice left for it rather than it being any indication that it hurts less. The noise he's making is ragged, heavy panting.

_Estimated time to charge: two minutes_ , the inside of Tony's head says. An EKG scrolls through his field of vision, getting stronger but still frighteningly irregular, and Tony can hear Stark's heartbeat pound in his ears.

"Two minutes," he relays. "Just two more minutes. Come on. You can do this. Stay with me." He doesn't know if he's trying to reassure Stark or Rogers—or, hell, maybe even himself—but Stark curls the thumb and index finger of one of his hands into an OK sign before shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw again on the glove.

He holds his hand perfectly steady. Repulsor energy shines and reflects and it would be beautiful if it weren't awful and terrifying and he weren't literally hurting himself. Tony realizes he's sweating. He stares at Rogers' gloves, Rogers' hands pressed against Stark's shoulders. He can't bring himself to look at Rogers' face; he knows that Rogers cares about Stark even if they don't know each other well, and it's everything he can't have anymore, because Steve didn't, because Steve doesn't, because Steve's dead. He doesn't want to see that caring on some other Steve Rogers' face.

Stark shakes his head like he's trying to move away and groans; Rogers makes a sympathetic noise, mirroring it, low and anguished, like the sound's being ripped out of him.

_One minute_ , Tony's mind says.

It's one of the longest minutes of Tony's life.

Stark is eerily silent, only whimpering every so often; Extremis tells Tony he's still conscious.

_Charged_ , Extremis says, and Tony lets the repulsor dim and closes the panel. He drags his hand away. He's shaking now. He clenches his fist. He can't quite bring himself to take the gauntlet off.

Stark turns his head to the side and spits out the glove. He lifts a hand, weakly, and brushes it against Rogers' fingers; Rogers still hasn't moved his hands from Stark's shoulders, though his grip has loosened. Stark looks up at Rogers, at Tony, at the rest of the Invaders' concerned faces beyond them.

"That was fun," Stark says. His voice is raw. "Let's never do that again."

Tony sits back on his heels. "You're welcome."

"Are you all right?" Rogers asks. There's so much _concern_ in his words that Tony just— he can't deal. "I thought you said you kept that charged."

Stark shrugs off Rogers' hands and sits up, fumbling for his clothes with shaking fingers. "I did. I do," he says. "I guess I thought I had more of a charge than I did. I don't know what happened."

But he's not looking at Rogers when he says it. He's looking at Tony, and Tony knows the lie because this has been Tony's body. This has been Tony's problem. He had enough of a charge and then something startled him, startled his heart into beating faster than he expected, and the system couldn't cope with the battery drain. And whatever startled him was something about what Tony said. And he's not going to talk about it. And he's going to lie about knowing it.

Whatever. Tony's good with secrets.

"You're at a full charge now," Tony says, "as near as I can tell. So subsequent charges should hurt less, if you don't wait as long." He grins. "Come to me, I'll top you up."

"How," Stark rasps, and he stops and tries again. "How did you know? Do _you_ have—?" He breaks off and taps the panel on his chest.

Tony shakes his head. "Used to. Not anymore."

Hope shines in Stark's eyes. "What did you—?"

"It's too far in the future," Tony says, and he has to watch his counterpart's face fall. "You couldn't invent it. The technology doesn't exist yet. I'm sorry."

Stark's jaw goes tight, but he nods. His eyes drop to Tony's gauntlet. "And what the hell is that?" His gaze moves to the open armor case, where the other pieces of the suit are plainly visible.

Tony swallows hard. "You know how you said you were Iron Man?" He tries to smile. He doesn't quite make it. "Me too. This is the Iron Man suit."

He looks around and realizes the rest of the Invaders are staring.

"If you're Iron Man," Bucky says, in a very quiet, awed voice, "and you don't go on adventures, then why are you Iron Man?"

Tony's laugh is dry. "I'm— I used to be a superhero." He supposes he can't really call himself an Avenger anymore. It's not like the old days. Carol runs the team. The official team, because he broke the world to the point that now there are two. He's just the director of SHIELD, even if sometimes he suits up for it. "Like in comic books. Where I come from, there are threats bigger than ordinary people can fight. And some of us fight them. So I built the suit."

Bucky squints. "But you're not a superhero anymore?"

"He said he was a director," Rogers says, from behind him, and God, trust him to have remembered that. "A director of some government organization." Hearing the title in that man's voice makes Tony shudder. "Not a superhero."

_Tell me, Director_ , Steve spits out, in his mind, from behind the bars of the Raft, on the last night of his life. _Was it worth it?_

"Not so much these days," Tony says. Funny, isn't it, that now that he's an actual superhuman he's mostly stopped being a superhero. "There was— a friend of mine, he— I— it— it wasn't—"

His throat closes up over the words.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I can't talk about it."

He lets the gauntlet fall, armor pieces clattering into the dirt, and he shuts his eyes. He takes a breath, then another, opens his eyes, and stands up. He has to be alone. He's walking. He's heading to the camp perimeter. He doesn't know where he's going.

"Let him go," Stark says, from somewhere behind him. "He'll come back. He'll be fine."

Tony's not really sure that's true.

He shuts his eyes again and tries not to picture Steve's face.

* * *

He stops when he's far enough away that he can't see them, when he's far enough away that he can pretend that maybe he just decided to visit Italy in December. He can almost pretend his life hasn't gone to hell to the point where the least awful thing about his situation is actually the fact that he's trapped in an alternate World War II with currently no way home. Most days, not being able to go home would rank a lot higher, but right now the worst thing about his life is that he has to share it with Rogers. There's a stranger here wearing Steve's face and it's worse than Steve being dead because it's not Steve, and every time he looks at him Tony is reminded of everything he lost. Every time he looks at him he thinks about what they did to each other.

He killed Steve. He _killed_ him. It might not have been his finger on the trigger, but he'd clearly been more than willing to load the gun. And he hadn't known until it was too late.

After a while there's the sound of someone moving through the branches.

"Hey there." Stark's voice is cautious, and he comes close enough to perch precariously on the nearest rock. He's looking at Tony like he doesn't know whether Tony bites and doesn't want to risk it.

It's kind of ridiculous, because if anyone would know, Stark would. Tony doesn't bite. No, that would be striking first and sparing himself pain. Tony doesn't do that. Tony takes shrapnel to the chest and lets it live there, killing him slowly, as he forgets to charge his chestplate, as he bleeds and dies and saves the world, again and again. Tony injects himself with a retrovirus that has a 97.5% mortality rate. Tony cuts off his own foot. Tony's always been willing to make sacrifices.

"Hey yourself," Tony returns, neutrally. "Are you Captain America's messenger now?"

"He's concerned about you," Stark says, drawing one knee up and wrapping his hands around it. That means yes. "We all are. Figured you'd have a better chance with me than him; he thought you might be too intimidated to talk to your, uh, childhood hero."

Tony knows that _intimidated_ isn't the right adjective at all. "Yeah, he's probably right." But not for the reasons he thinks he is.

"I know you didn't sign up for this trip," Stark says, and his eyes soften in camaraderie. "Or this team. But you're temporarily here. And I think that means we've adopted you for the duration. It'll be okay. Especially if you can help us out."

"Believe me," Tony says, "I am more than happy to help you pry a Cosmic Cube out of Hydra's clutches. I fight other people's wars in my spare time." It sounds awful, but it actually is true. This is his life. It was his life, anyway. "Going home is an added bonus."

Stark looks at him for a long while. "You don't want to go home, do you?" he says, finally.

Tony stares into the distance, letting his eyes go unfocused. "It hasn't got much to recommend it."

"Not since your friend died," Stark says, and he's him, he's a fucking genius, of course he's figured out that much.

Ice curls around Tony's heart. The image feels like it's seared into his vision, leaving traces of itself everywhere he looks, like burn-in on a bad CRT—Steve bleeding out on the steps, over and over and over. "I don't want to talk about him."

Stark holds up his hands, a surrender. "I'm not asking."

"It was war," Tony says. "There was a war and he died and he was my best friend and it was my fault." He bites out the words, and then he hears himself laugh, harsh and ugly. "You're not asking, but maybe I'm telling."

And if it weren't 1943, Stark would have picked up on the subtext of that particular phrasing.

"You want some advice?" Stark asks, and then he keeps talking before Tony can open his mouth, of course, because Tony Stark is always kind of an asshole in any universe. "You can't think about it. I know it's a shitty thing to do. Hell, it's probably the wrong thing to do, in the long run, but right now? You can't think about it. You're in a war now. You'll go nuts. You need to make it through the war first. Keep it together, run the mission, and then you can break down when you get home. Go off the rails. Whatever you need to do. Down a whole liquor cabinet. Lock yourself in your house and don't leave for a week." His smile is crooked. That is some A-plus Tony Stark advice. It is exactly what he would like to do. He's pretty sure no one other than himself would think it was a good idea. This is maybe why he shouldn't be sent to give himself a pep talk, but he's positive he couldn't have endured one from Rogers.

Tony sighs. "I'm already crazy." He loves Extremis, but sometimes— yeah, the hallucinations are a little much. He'd never admit it, but sometimes he wonders if Steve had been onto something, when he said— no. Tony's not thinking about that. Right.

"Crazier, then."

Tony breathes in and out. He's dead. He's gone. Let him go. "Okay. Not thinking about it."

"Speaking of telling," Stark says, and he lets the half-sentence hang in the air, because Tony knows exactly what he's going to say.

Tony sighs. "Yeah, yeah. Cap wants to talk to me."

Stark quirks an eyebrow—probably at his choice of nickname. "Yeah. He does."

"You know what I'm going to say," Tony says, the resignation sinking into his bones, sapping him like poison. "You know I can't tell you about your future."

Stark meets his gaze. His eyes, the same eyes Tony sees in the mirror, are knowing, and Tony suddenly, desperately wants to tell him—not about their future, but about his own. He wants to tell him about Steve, about the Avengers, about Stamford, about the fucking SHRA, because Stark would understand. He would understand why Tony did it, why he'd had to do all of it. No one else would understand, not like he can. No one else can. He wonders if this is why people go to confession. But Tony knows no one can ever absolve him. Hell, he told it all to Steve's body and it's not like that did him any good. He spent an hour sobbing and then wiped the helicarrier security footage. No need to let anyone else see him like that. God, he needs his armor on. He'd feel so much better if they couldn't see his face.

" _I_ know that," Stark replies, stressing the pronoun. "But me, I'm one of Fury's special agents. I have hundreds of secrets filling my head. Classified. Top secret. Eyes-only. I know that sometimes the truth isn't what people need. And you're me, so you know I know that." He holds up one finger. "Captain America, on the other hand—well, I might have only known him for—" he pauses as he counts on his fingers, and Tony can't actually place the odd look on his face— "four days, but I'm getting the sense that he's morally opposed to anything that isn't the honest truth, if you know what I mean. For him things are simple. Black and white. He thinks you've got answers, and if you just tell us how it goes the war will be over, like that." He snaps his fingers.

Four days. Dear God. They really don't know each other at all. Or maybe they do. Maybe they've already figured out what's really in each other's hearts. But they haven't torn each other apart over it yet.

_Give it time_ , Tony thinks, bleakly.

"I know exactly what you mean," he says, and the words have too much feeling in them; Stark blinks and looks at him and Tony knows he's deliberately not prodding. He never thought he'd be kind to himself.

"Anyway," Stark says, after a pause. "If you're not going to foretell our future it's probably better that he hear that from you. I can try to tell him, but—" he shrugs— "I think he might find it more final if you did. If you can stomach letting your hero down, that is."

Tony wants to laugh and cry at the same time, because if only Stark knew how well he's managed to do that—

"I'll cope," he says dryly. He always does, after all. He always did.

When they get back to camp, Rogers has shooed the rest of the Invaders away—watch or drills or something. Whatever armies do in enemy territory. Tony reaches out to the suit sensors for a quick check, and there's still nothing local except for the seven of them. Rogers has been sitting on the ground, and he rises when he sees the two of them. The expression on his face is a little odd at first, like he's still not used to seeing two of Tony side-by-side, but then it quickly firms into resolve. A very, very familiar resolve.

And God, but Tony knows that look. That's that Steve Rogers stubbornness, the same the multiverse over. Head up, hands on hips, feet planted, and God help you if you get in the way of what he wants.

Tony thinks he's supposed to be intimidated and not just painfully nostalgic.

Unfortunately for Rogers, Tony's never been scared of him.

Tony nods in greeting. "You wanted to speak with me, Captain?"

Rogers' voice is neutral. "It occurs to me, Director, that you're from the future. If not our future, then _a_ future."

Here it comes. He still never wants to hear this man call him _Director_ ever again.

Tony tilts his head in acknowledgment. "I've made no secret of that." He takes a breath. "But if what you want is a forecast of your war, I'm not doing that. I can't do that."

"Why?"

The question is calm, polite. At least they're starting out easy. Time to try the simplest excuse, then.

"How about this?" Tony returns. "I'm not your guy. I know you asked a Cosmic Cube for help, and for whatever reasons it had, it picked me, but I'm not actually especially qualified to advise you on your war." He shrugs. "This all happened decades before I was born. Sure, I learned about it in school. So did everyone. If pressed, I could name some major highlights, but the names and dates you need? That's not happening. The Cube didn't grab you a war expert."

That's not exactly true; he is smart, and he knows more than most people, and in fact most of what he can put names and dates on is courtesy of Steve, meaning that it would be relevant to these Invaders. Steve's fondness for war documentaries whenever he got the TV remote for the night had always been a source of ribbing from the rest of the Avengers— _senior citizen_ , they'd called him, laughing, as they'd watched the talking heads going on for an hour about Neville Chamberlain and then Steve ranting for probably that long again about appeasement. Tony hadn't known there'd be a test later.

It all seems much less theoretical now.

Rogers looks at him now and his nostrils flare. Tony knows the gloves are coming off. Hackles up. _You're Steve fucking Rogers, all right_ , he thinks, and he thinks about crying again.

"Permission to speak freely, Director Stark." The words are crisp, bitten off. Being non-military, Tony doesn't actually outrank him, but it seems like Rogers wants the veil of politeness.

Tony shows all his teeth. "Please do."

Rogers' chin goes up. "That's _bullshit_."

Tony doesn't cave—because, hell, it takes more than that, doesn't it?—and he thinks Rogers is surprised, to judge by the slight widening of his eyes. "Is it?"

"People are _dying_ ," Rogers rasps. "People are dying right now and you have _answers_ and you think you can just stand there and give me excuses? You could save them. There are things you know _right now_ that could save people and don't say there aren't. Don't lie to me. This isn't some game you win by being clever. Lives are at stake."

He can name major battles. He can name dates. He can name the date a year and a half from now when Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes hit the Atlantic and don't come up.

"It's not that simple." Tony swallows hard. "You're asking me to alter the past. There's no guarantee that events in your world would proceed in the same way as they have in mine, and even if they did—" He sighs and shuts his eyes, and when he opens them Rogers is still staring at him, that intense gaze, every inch Captain America. "Yes, the war is horrible and awful, and yes, there are millions of casualties, but it's a known quantity. Suppose I tell you how to save even one person, one person meant to be lost, and in doing so I change history and trade that number of deaths for something uncountably greater? Some vast, unknowably high number? You want me to live with that, Captain?"

He could do it, too. This isn't just some hypothetical question or episode of Star Trek. One date. One mission. One set of coordinates. If Captain America and Bucky don't stop Zemo's plane, they live—but whoever that plane bombs doesn't.

"He's right, you know." Stark's voice startles him, and Rogers' gaze snaps over, accusing.

"You're agreeing with him?" The question is ripped from his mouth, a plaintive cry.

"He has a point," Stark says, levelly. "Come on, you've read enough sci-fi. Time travel is a tricky thing. You don't screw around with the past."

"You _save lives_." Rogers' voice rises. "It's the right thing to do. Always. There are people to save. We _save them_. I don't see what's so hard about this." And God, he really is Steve Rogers, isn't he? Tony's had this argument with him so many times. His idealism, Tony's pragmatism. The Guardsmen. The Kree Supreme Intelligence. Mentallo.

And the SHRA.

No one ever wins this fight, but he'll be damned if he's not going to try. And he's had a decade more practice fighting it than Rogers has.

The perfect example slides into Tony's mind, and Tony opens his mouth. "Okay, look," he says. "In this world, did the Germans bomb a city in England, name of Coventry? It would have been maybe three years ago. Pretty nasty. Devastating, you could say. Maybe five hundred civilian casualties. Ringing any bells yet?"

Rogers nods slowly; he clearly hasn't figured out where Tony's going with this. He doesn't know, and Tony feels awful—but obviously not awful enough to stop. "Yeah," he says. "What about it?"

"What if I told you," Tony says, "that the Allies knew? That they knew before the bombs dropped, and they let it happen?"

Rogers' face goes pale; his eyes are wide, and his mouth is slack in disbelief. Stark looks shaken as well, but he's covering it better, with just a slight hitch in his breathing marking the surprise; Tony only knows because, well, he is him.

"I don't believe you." Rogers' voice is louder; his eyes glimmer with tears. "Why?" he asks, betrayed. "Why would they do that? How would they even know that?"

"How? Because they'd been reading Hitler's mail," Tony retorts. "Because German encryption has been cracked. For years."

The objection he gets comes not from Rogers but from Stark. "Hey, hey! No!" He's all but shouting now, and he holds out a hand like he can stop Tony from talking. "You can't tell him this! He's not cleared to know about Ultra!"

And Rogers rounds on Stark. "You _knew_?"

The hand Stark was holding up is joined by another, held defensively. "Not about this, not about Coventry. Not like that. We—Christ, Steve, you're really not cleared for this—we knew there was going to be an attack. We didn't know for certain that it was Coventry." He glances sidelong at Tony. "But Ultra? Enigma? Yeah. At least half of the intel you're acting on comes from decoded messages. Which is a fact you are definitely not authorized to know." He runs a hand through his hair and glares at Tony. "Thanks for that. What a fuck-up this is." He looks back at Rogers, pleading. "I keep secrets, all right? It's my job. It's not personal."

There's an undercurrent of distrust in Rogers' eyes now, something that wasn't there before. Is Tony screwing the two of them up in every universe? Is he going to hurt everyone he touches?

He's come this far. He might as well finish the comparison.

"What I'm saying," Tony says, "is that the Allies had a choice. Let's pretend for a minute that they knew. Maybe they did know. You can't be absolutely certain they didn't. I'm sure there are things even you don't know." He glances at his counterpart, who is still pale, and then over at Rogers. "If they'd saved Coventry—or any other city—the Germans would have known their messages were insecure. They would have changed their encryption, and in the meantime everything you've learned, all the lives that have been saved since—that never would have happened. You would have known nothing. So they sacrificed five hundred lives then to buy lives later." Tony knows it's awful. He doesn't think he really ever understood how anyone could do this, until the day he'd read the Superhuman Registration Act in its entirety and he'd realized that no one was coming out of this unscarred. All he could do was limit the damage. And he'd tried. And he'd failed. He'd failed in the only way that counted. He shuts his eyes for an instant, opens them, and keeps talking. "And even if you're right and they didn't know, they've still made choices like this before, haven't they? You know they have. You know that decisions cost lives. This is war. You spend lives to take a city, to hold a line, to bring down your enemy. You can't save everyone. You _can't_."

Rogers' eyes are closed now. There are tears soaking into his cowl. His face is wracked with pain.

"These are the good guys," Tony continues, and he hates that he has to do this. "This is what you believe in. This is what you're fighting for. Sometimes you have to be the one to make hard decisions. It's not easy. It's not simple." Oh, God, he's had this fight. He's had _this exact fight_. He shuts his eyes and breathes in and he's standing in the ruins of the mansion and Steve's staring at him like he doesn't know him anymore and it's too late to fix anything and then Extremis stutters and the memory falls apart into ones and zeroes behind his eyes. "It's not ideal. The _world's_ not ideal. But sometimes you have to _trade lives_ , okay? Sometimes you have to make a few sacrifices to save everyone you can." His voice breaks, and the man who needed to hear this is dead, but this is all he's got.

Rogers opens his eyes. His gaze is hard, pale, bloodshot. And he doesn't know, he can't know, but he says the worst thing Tony's ever heard. Again.

"And is it worth it?" The words are precise. "It isn't, is it?" Rogers looks at Tony, and something dies inside him, there where he thought there was nothing left alive. "You know that. I can see it in you. You're saying all this, you're trying to tell me that sacrifices are necessary, that you're going to just let people die, but you don't believe it. Not in your heart. There are things you'd take back, aren't there? Sacrifices you've made? Who died for you, Director?"

Tony opens his mouth and there are no words there, nothing but awful, wretched pain, nothing but a vision of a still, cold body in an echoing metal room, the shield on his chest smeared with Tony's own blood, a last memory of a man who will never open his eyes again. He bites it all back, chokes it down.

"This conversation is over," he says, in a voice so broken he doesn't recognize it, and he turns and leaves before either of them can stop him.

* * *

Tony's running away again. He's not watching where he's going; his only objective is to get as far away from them as possible. Rogers didn't know, Tony repeats, but instead of comforting him, the fact only makes it worse: even this man who didn't know him and didn't know a thing about his war knew exactly how to twist the knife to wound him the most. It has to be some kind of multiversal law: Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, their fates intertwined, inevitable, and uniformly awful.

Because he's not watching where he's going, he runs smack into Bucky Barnes. The universe must really have it out for Tony, because this would be the next person on the list of People Tony Really Doesn't Want To Talk To. Namor's up there too, but he's earned his position by virtue of the sheer irritation involved in talking to him—he is, for example, Tony's least favorite fellow Illuminati member—rather than by his very presence pressing on all of the secrets Tony can't tell about the future.

Bucky's a kid. It might be the middle of a war, but he's just a kid and all Tony can think about when he looks at him is how he's going to be ripped apart and put back together in broken pieces. They may not be the closest of friends in his universe, but Tony's fond of the guy, now that they've hammered out their initial disagreement; he gave him the shield, after all. A single word from Tony could spare him this fate in a second universe. And he has to do nothing about it.

Bucky drops out of the closest tree and lands lightly on his feet. "Hi, Mr. Stark."

"Hi," Tony says.

"I heard you all yelling," Bucky says, when Tony says nothing further to continue the conversation. "Couldn't really make out the details. Is everything all right?"

"Oh, you know." Tony tries for a casual tone. "The usual. Cap wanted me to tell him about the future and I wouldn't."

Bucky shrugs. The mask makes him look oddly sinister; it doesn't really go with the rest of his garish outfit. "Is it a nice future, where you come from?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, it must be nice, right?" Bucky sounds so goddamn naive and Tony just wants to punch something. Or blast something. Repulsors sound good. He misses hiding in the suit, but that wouldn't exactly make him inconspicuous among the Invaders. Not that his SHIELD uniform is great either, but at least it's clothing. "I mean," Bucky continues, "if you're so set on us having it, or something like it—it must be good. Right?" He repeats the question, a little more uncertainly.

_Well, it's better for you than it used to be_ , Tony doesn't say.

"It's better than it could be," he says instead. "I've seen a lot of alternate futures. The ones where this war goes differently... usually aren't great." Not that that stops people like Red Skull from trying. Over and over and over. And this time he succeeded. Not in changing history, but he definitely accomplished something. Something monstrous. Red Skull finally killed Steve, just like he's always wanted. Grief curls around Tony again, settling into him, sharp and raw, pricking at still-open wounds. "You want to know something funny?"

"What?"

Tony half-smiles at the memory. "I used to want to be you, when I was a kid."

"Me?" Bucky glances around the woods, like he's looking for whoever it is Tony might have meant.

"Yeah," Tony says. "You. I had all the comic books, you know? There were comic books. Hundreds of stories about you and Cap and the Invaders, in addition to everything real that you did. You were heroes. So I wanted to be you."

Bucky frowns, perplexed. "You didn't want to be Cap?"

Even as a kid, Tony had known he wasn't good enough. Captain America was perfect. A myth. A fantasy. Even Steve had run himself ragged often enough, trying to live up to it, and Tony used to coax him out of his slumps. Tony's always known something about disappointment.

"Nah." He tries to think of how to put it. "It's like— you don't want to be King Arthur, you want to be Lancelot, you know? The king's champion, not the king." And wow, he's just not going to think of the betrayals involved in that particular analogy. "Captain America is—was—a superhero. Superhuman. Better than the rest of us. I couldn't want to be him, because I couldn't be him. But you—you were the regular guy who got to come along with Cap and the rest of the superheroes, and you got where you were by being good at what you did. It felt like something I could achieve. You weren't superhuman and you could do this. I wasn't superhuman, but I could build armor and put it on and fight with the other superheroes. Just like you." He finds he's smiling again. Maybe this is what happiness felt like, once. "I used to pretend I'd go on adventures with Captain America and the Invaders. Just like you did. We'd fight the bad guys together."

Bucky's looking at him, wide-eyed and awed, but then he laughs. "And here you are, fighting Hydra with Cap and the Invaders. Dream come true. How's it feel?"

"Not quite how I imagined it." It's still hurting, every goddamn minute of it.

Bucky's still chuckling. "And I used to pretend I'd get to go on adventures with Tony Stark."

There is so much hero worship going on around here; Tony doesn't even know where to begin. "And now you're going on adventures with two of me! Lucky you!"

Bucky laughs again. "I like you, Mr. Stark."

"Same here," Tony says, because he does. But if Bucky knew what he knew, he wouldn't like him. He shouldn't.

He wishes he could tell him. They can't stop the future.

"So," Bucky says, jerking his head back toward the center of camp, where two figures stand indistinctly through the trees, "you think they've got a plan to get the Cube back?"

"I don't know about them," Tony says, "but I've got a plan."

Fly to Monte Cassino. Fly fast. Get the Cube. Pretty simple.

"Does it involve punching Hydra agents?" Bucky's grin is feral, familiar, determined, and Tony shudders inwardly and wants to recoil. He saw that grin on Bucky, when they met. When Bucky fought him. He's a kid, but he's no innocent.

This is what they mold into the Winter Soldier.

Tony makes himself smile. "It _absolutely_ involves punching Hydra agents."

"Then I'm in."

The figures through the trees are blurry; they seem to be standing closer together.

"Hey," Tony asks, "do they get along? Cap and the other me, I mean."

Bucky nods enthusiastically. "So far as I can tell. Mr. Stark hasn't been here long, but Cap said they got along well, and they must have, because he asked for him specially from HQ. They haven't tried to kill each other in their sleep, anyway."

They... huh.

It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. It's war. There's a limited number of tents to go around. It's not like he's never been in close quarters with the Avengers—hell, they were all tied up naked in the Savage Land, weren't they? He of all people should know it means nothing. It can't be. Rogers wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't go for him. He doesn't swing that way, and Tony's pretty goddamn sure that in any universe he wouldn't be lucky enough to be Steve's one exception.

"They bunk together?"

Bucky nods. "Cap's got the biggest tent. I usually bunk with him but I let Mr. Stark have my half since it's the nicest tent. I've been sleeping with the radio." His brow furrows. "I don't know where we'll put you for the night."

"Hopefully it won't be a problem," Tony says.

"How do you figure that?" Bucky asks, squinting.

Tony spreads his hands wide. "I can be gone by tonight, if this works."

There's another flash of that open-mouthed awe, the look that seriously takes years off him, which on a teenage soldier is really never good. He looks like he's about twelve. "Wow! Must be some plan! Mind telling us about it?"

"I will," Tony says. "I want to tell everyone at once."

Bucky practically leaps over a few branches and a rock. "Let's get them, then!"

"Okay, okay!" Tony has to laugh at the enthusiasm.

"And, hey, Mr. Stark?" Bucky pauses.

"Yeah?"

His face is suddenly serious. "I'm sorry if I made it worse for you, asking about why you weren't a superhero. I didn't mean to make you think about your friend. I didn't know."

"It's all right," Tony says, and he finds that he means it. "You didn't mean any harm by it. And I... I think about him a lot anyway. Once more hardly makes a difference."

Not compared to how it feels looking at this Steve Rogers, when he was young. It's like the old days, before everything was broken. Not that Tony's not doing his level best to break them now. He has no idea why it all keeps going wrong.

"Cap wasn't hard on you about it, was he?" Bucky asks, and he grimaces when Tony doesn't answer fast enough. "He can be— he's not always the best at feelings. But he means well. He's just trying to do what's right."

"Yeah," Tony says, and he smiles a smile he doesn't feel. "I'm sure he is."

He knows exactly where that gets them.

* * *

With Bucky's help, he rounds up the rest of the Invaders and drags them to the center of camp. Rogers watches Tony, impassive, like he's not sure what to make of this development. Tony's not really sure how to approach this. He's sure as hell not expecting Rogers to offer any kind of apology—because, well, Steve wouldn't—and indeed Rogers just looks at him awkwardly. Like he's regretting his words but can't take any of it back. Tony knows that look too. Stark stands behind him; he's not quite meeting Tony's eyes either.

Luckily Tony doesn't have to figure out what to say, because Bucky starts talking.

"He has a plan!" Bucky says, gesturing at Tony. "A plan for how to get the Cube back. Tell 'em!"

Tony clears his throat. He can put aside their differences. He's a team player. He's had plenty of practice. "It's at the monastery. Something's at the monastery, anyway." He's not sure how to put the details of his knowledge into words without giving it all away. "The... equipment I brought with me... is detecting strange readings, the sort of energy I associate with the Cosmic Cube."

The armor sensors aren't particularly fine-grained at this distance, but there's a lot of energy at the monastery, the kind of weird readings Tony associates with cosmic-level power. He doesn't, unfortunately, have stored local baselines for any of it—Extremis expects to shunt the readings off to Avengers servers where they do keep files on everything they've seen, but unfortunately those are half a century and several universes away.

The first objection, oddly, comes from Stark. "Equipment? I haven't seen you access any equipment, and your briefcase has been right here." He digs his toe in the dirt, in the direction of Tony's armor.

Tony smiles, closed-mouthed, and nods. "I'm aware of that. It's... complicated."

"It's another one of those things you're not going to tell us, isn't it?" Rogers' voice, hoarse and dry, is startlingly emotionless. He's working hard on that Captain America Is Disappointed In You face.

Tony tries a smile again. "Sorry."

"You're not," Rogers says, familiar ire beginning to shade his tone, "so don't bother. How certain are you that it's the Cosmic Cube? That the Cube is what's at the monastery?"

Tony sighs. "Not... not a hundred percent." He shouldn't be surprised that Rogers can find the one crack in his plan and pick at it. "But I'm certain that there is something there, something big, and therefore it's something you don't want Hydra to have."

"I'm not particularly inclined to risk the lives of my team when you don't even know what's there," Rogers retorts. "Suppose we get there and there's nothing? Or there's nothing useful to you?"

"There are other things I can use to get home," Tony says. It's not like he absolutely needs a Cosmic Cube to make a portal. There was that time he got stuck in Camelot with Doom and the two of them rigged a portal out of what they had on them; unfortunately, Extremis makes that trick a lot harder, since Tony has taken out most of what used to be the armor circuitry and stuck it in his brain and bones. "If all else fails, I can try to make one from current technology, but if there are local artifacts that would be the easier route." He usually hates magic, but he's willing to make an exception for this. "And anything we can take out of Hydra's hands would be good news for you."

Grudgingly, Rogers concedes the point. "We can't just ransack the entire monastery, though. Seven of us against however many Hydra agents they have—we can't possibly subdue the whole place, so it'd be smash and grab, and you have to know what you're looking for, Cube or otherwise."

That's not exactly true, that they can't ransack the monastery. Considering the relative technological disparity, Tony can take a Hydra base by himself, easily, and he's positive that the Captain America of his world wouldn't have hesitated—but maybe it's different when your team is entirely baseline human. Still, he doesn't think _I can capture a Hydra base alone_ is going to go over well; he would like their help with this. Call it sentimental, maudlin foolishness, but he wants to be on good terms with the Invaders.

"Yeah." Bucky chimes in. "There were a lot of artifacts in that room—how are we going to know what we want?"

Tony blinks. "You saw a roomful of artifacts?"

"We all did," Bucky says. "That's where the Cube came from."

Well, there's the answer. Tony turns to Rogers. "What did you see?"

Confused, Rogers stares at him. "I— what?"

"You have a _photographic memory_." Tony's words are cool, precise. Tony can't believe this didn't occur to his counterpart, to ask him what else he'd seen, when he got here. "Tell me what else you saw in that room."

"How the hell do you—?" Rogers' face is twisted, and he breaks off. "I know, you can't tell me how you know that about me. It's probably because I'm famous, right?" Maybe Stark didn't know about his memory. Rogers' eyes go unfocused, and he looks off into the distance, recalling. "Lot of art. Statues. Oil paintings. Renaissance, mostly." Tony motions him on. "A red stone—an orb. Palm-sized, maybe. Glowing."

"A Bloodstone," Stark murmurs. "Yeah, you told me about that."

Tony waves it off. "No good," he says, "unless you want a portal to Limbo. Which would also be bad for Hydra to create, but that's really not where I want to go. Anything else?"

"That and the Cube were the most interesting things," Rogers says, voice still abstracted. "There was a fair amount of jewelry. Ornamental weaponry. Armor pieces. That's about it."

_Pieces_ is a weird way to describe armor. "What, like a suit of armor?"

Rogers shakes his head. "No, not a full suit." He flexes his fingers, clenching his fist as if to illustrate it, and Tony suddenly has a very, very bad feeling about where this is heading. "Just the glove piece, like you had on earlier. A gauntlet? It was... shining, I guess you could call it."

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. There's something heavy in the pit of Tony's stomach. He has no idea what his face looks like, but he must look awful, because the Invaders are staring at him like they are seriously worried for his safety.

"Are you okay?" Rogers asks. There is actually some concern on his face, but Tony can't think about that now.

Tony shakes his head, because he is most definitely not okay, because if things had been bad before they are so much worse now. "This gauntlet," he says. "Was it golden?" Rogers nods. Shit. Maybe, Tony tells himself, maybe it only has some of the Gems."Was it glowing rainbow?" Rogers nods again. Oh, God, no. "Was it inset with gemstones? Six gems? Big gems? Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple?"

"Yeah," Rogers says, still looking confused. "Six gems. Those colors. How did you know?"

Briefly, Tony shuts his eyes in misery. They are so fucked.

Stark frowns. "I've never heard of anything like this." He sounds offended that his knowledge has failed him.

"It's called the Infinity Gauntlet." Tony looks at at each of the Invaders, one by one. "Every universe has one. And if you thought Cosmic Cubes were bad, the Infinity Gauntlet makes a Cosmic Cube look like a child's toy."

Rogers looks at him for long moments. "You're serious?"

"Deadly serious," Tony says. "The only reason we are all still alive at this moment is because they must be unaware of the Gauntlet's full potential. There's no other explanation. They can— they can destroy anything. Change anything. Make anyone do anything they want. Anything they can dream up, they can do it. You have to get it away from them."

The world could burn. The entire universe could burn.

Rogers studies his face. "And you could go home with this?"

"Captain," Tony says, "I'm not sure you understand the scale of the power I'm talking about here. I could assemble all the Cosmic Cubes in the world in a pile at your feet, instantly. I could give you Hitler and Hirohito, gift-wrapped and willing to do anything you told them. I could blow up all the stars in the galaxy at once, in every galaxy, and wipe out all life in the universe." Rogers' face has gone pale. "And yeah—" he grins weakly— "then I could go home."

There is stunned silence, utterly complete and total, among the Invaders.

"I think maybe we shouldn't let Hydra keep that," Stark says, in the careful tone that Tony always reserves for his driest understatements.

"I'm with him," Bucky says.

There are murmurs of agreement from the rest of the team. Even Namor nods.

"All right." Rogers' voice is firm, and he looks off into the distance, in the direction of the monastery. "New objective: we find this Gauntlet. We need to come up with tactics as soon as possible, though of course an attack won't be possible immediately; it will be at least tomorrow before we can begin to mount an offensive. Longer if we need to radio for reinforcements. Torch, where did you put the maps—"

"Wait," Tony says, and Rogers looks at him. "We can do this today. Right now."

"What do you mean, today?" Rogers looks up at the sky. "It'll be nightfall by the time we get outfitted and get there, and our previous raid was in the day. And we have no intel about their current guard situation. I understand it's urgent, but we can't just—"

"I can," Tony cuts in. "I can fly. I can be there in a couple minutes, tops. I can take out whatever they've got and find the Gauntlet." Rogers looks a little uncomfortable. "If you want to be involved, I can carry one person. You pick who, but I'm assuming we'll be under heavy fire once they figure out what we're there for."

He's bulletproof in the suit, but the Invaders—other than Rogers—are baseline human, and a two-man base attack is a hell of a firefight.

"Toro and I have that experimental stuff," Torch offers. "Napalm."

"Yeah!" Toro puts in. "You'd really be a Human Torch, with that stuff!"

Well, that would be... a mess, especially in close-quarters fighting. Napalm is bad enough, and prefixing that with the word _experimental_ means a lot of things have the potential to go wrong. And it may be war, but that doesn't mean they should burn out the entire monastery for the hell of it. Rogers is shaking his head, and Tony knows he's come to the same conclusion.

"I'm always in, Cap, you know that," Bucky says.

"I offer my help." Namor's voice is almost not disdainful. "In whatever capacity is necessary."

Stark has the rakish, daring-adventurer grin down pat. "I'm positive you already know this about me, Steve, but I am very, very good at stealing mystical artifacts. It's kind of a hobby of mine."

But Rogers is shaking his head. "No. No offense to the rest of you, but it's going to be me." 

And Tony expected that, of course he expected that, but something in his stomach turns over and twists into a knot. The last time he was on a battlefield with Steve—well, he doesn't want to think about that one. He can't even remember the last time they were on the same side in a fight. It was probably something small, inconsequential. Some nobody villain terrorizing Midtown. Something so everyday for the Avengers that he would never have noticed. Nothing special at the time. He wouldn't have known it would be the last time.

And anyway, he reminds himself, this isn't Steve.

Rogers seems to notice the hesitation. "Is that all right with you? I don't know how much you know about what the Army did to me—" _a hell of a lot_ , Tony thinks— "but I'm stronger, faster. I heal better. And I've got the shield. I'm the best choice." But he's sounding reluctant about it. His mouth is a thin, hard line.

"I figured you were." Tony smiles, because he can do this. He can. He can fight with Captain America at his side.

"Okay." Rogers pitches his voice for the rest of the Invaders. "Torch, I still want those maps. Let's see what we're dealing with. And Director?"

He _really_ should not have told him his title. Tony shudders. "Yes?"

"I want to talk to you. Alone." Rogers' face is stern, unyielding. That's not good.

Tony nods. "Of course, Captain."

* * *

Inside the tent, Rogers' face is shaded, though no less stern. It's a side of Captain America that people who don't know him see a lot, Tony has often observed—remote, unapproachable. The hero. The mask, and not the man under it. It's how Steve looked at him, during the war, and for a split-second he _is_ Steve, and Tony swallows hard and blinks to try to clear his mind. Then the expression resolves again and it's strange because he's so young, because when they were young Steve never looked at him like this; he was always bright and eager. Trusting.

Captain America doesn't trust him.

"Director," Rogers says, neutrally.

"Captain," Tony returns. "What can I do for you?"

Rogers shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with gloved fingertips. "Frankly? A hell of a lot more than you're doing now."

Disappointment and anger twist together and curl up Tony's spine, lighting up like a circuit, a closed connection, because he is definitely not here for Captain America telling him he's not good enough. Hasn't he had enough of that? Is this going to happen to him in every universe? Does Tony poison it all? In five years, in ten, will Rogers be looking at his own universe's Tony Stark like this? No, comes the instant reply, he won't be because he'll be a fucking iceberg, because that's how it has to work.

"I'm _helping you_ ," Tony snaps. "I told you about the Infinity Gauntlet, didn't I? You wouldn't know about it if not for me."

But that's somehow the wrong thing to say, because Rogers rises to his feet—he can just barely stand up straight, inside the tent—and tries his best to loom, with the inch he's got on Tony. "That's exactly my point." He pauses. "Look at it from my point of view, all right? What was supposed to be a simple recon mission was derailed by finding the Cube. HQ sent me Tony, and we were supposed to send him back with the Cube. It was supposed to be easy. Then we lost the Cube and got you." He sighs. "You say you're from the future. Someone's future. And you won't tell us anything. And now you're asking us to mount a mission that is decidedly not simple reconnaissance, to retrieve some mysterious artifact that my expert on mysterious artifacts has never even heard of. You want us to take that monastery on your say-so, Director, and then you want to disappear off into the future. Into thin air. Meanwhile, I'm the one who will be left standing here explaining to General Fury why I have decided on my own initiative to ruin every Allied plan for the Italian front. We're not supposed to mount an offensive on Cassino yet. Not for months, probably. Troops are still moving. And you want us to attack the monastery alone and save your Gauntlet? Today?"

"If you don't get that Gauntlet," Tony says, low and intense, "the entire universe is in danger. I'm not sure you understand the stakes, Captain."

"I understand," Rogers returns, "that you're telling me that's what the stakes are. But you have given me absolutely no reason whatsoever to believe you. I know that there are things you're not telling me. There are things you've been hiding from me since the moment I met you. Right from the beginning. And whatever they are, you're still hiding them." A heavy, cold ball of fear lodges in Tony's gut, but thankfully Rogers decides not to pursue this line of questioning. He shifts his stance, and Tony knows that look intimately, that hard-edged gaze, the tension in his muscles; he's ready for a fight. "Hell, you should consider yourself lucky that I haven't turned you over to HQ. Intelligence would love to get their hands on you, and you know it."

Tony's hands curl into fists. He feels a patch of the underarmor, cool and metallic, start to spread out across his chest, under his SHIELD uniform. They fight. They always fight. In every fucking universe. He was deluding himself if he thought they could ever have had anything else together.

"I think you'll find that I won't go easily," Tony says, keeping his voice even. He knows Rogers is underestimating him. He can't help it. He hasn't seen the armor. And even without it, Tony's transhuman now. And he knows exactly how he stacks up against Rogers. He and Steve could have killed each other in the ruins of the mansion, if they'd wanted to. But then, they never really wanted to, did they?

Evaluating, Rogers tilts his head. "Is that a threat, Director?"

"A data point," Tony says, in the same tone.

Rogers looks at him for a long moment, then takes a step back and... stands down. "The only reason I haven't is because Tony's vouched for you. It seems you've earned his trust, at least." Well, Tony did save his counterpart's life—and Stark at least is willing to accept that he has to keep secrets.

Tony nods. "But I haven't earned your trust."

There is another silence, this one heavy and oppressive. Rogers' eyes are still pale, cold. Ice-blue. His jaw is clenched. 

"Give me something," he says, finally. "If you want me to do this, you have to give me something. One thing. One reason to trust you. One piece of information. I just— I don't know you." Rogers sounds almost helpless, plaintive. "I know the Tony Stark of this world, but I don't know you. And I need to know where you stand. I need to know where your heart is."

_In your hands_ , Tony thinks. _Where it's always been_.

Tony sighs. "I told you. I can't tell you the future."

A muscle twitches as Rogers sets his jaw again. "Then I'm scratching your mission. I'll tell command we lost the Cube. I'll ask them to send us reinforcements, and if I can get another mission on the monastery authorized I _might_ —" he stresses the word— "consider looking for your Gauntlet at the same time."

He says it like he's trying to impress Tony with his authority, maybe even piss him off a little. But this is bigger than their goddamn egos. This is the Infinity Gauntlet. And Rogers is the one with intel on the monastery. Tony needs his help, tactically speaking.

"I told you," Tony says, urgently. "You can't do that. You have to—"

Rogers leans in. "Then _convince me_ , Director."

And he has an idea. It comes to him in brilliant clarity, a bolt of lightning. It's like when he wakes up in the middle of the night and sees a new design sketched out in his head, a repulsor upgrade or a tricky bit of code solved or the way the armor should hook into the undersuit—an entire plan in his mind all at once. It might not work, but it's the only chance he's got.

"I can't tell you the future," Tony repeats. "But I can tell you the past."

"The past?"

Tony takes a deep breath. "Your name is Steven Rogers," he says, and Rogers squints at him like he can't figure out why Tony is telling him something he already knows. "You have no middle name. You were born on July 4, 1920. Your parents' names were Joseph and Sarah. You were born in Manhattan, and you grew up on the Lower East Side. Your father died when you were young, and you and your mother moved in with your grandfather, Ian. Your mother died when you were a teenager. Before you enlisted you had a year of art school, and a painting job with the WPA. You've always wanted to be an artist. The other GIs nicknamed you Rembrandt, because you were always sketching."

Rogers is still squinting, unimpressed. "I gather I'm famous, in the future you come from. Who's to say they don't write books about me when all this is declassified? I don't see how this is supposed to convince me."

"You like science fiction and fantasy novels," Tony continues. "You like Tolkien, although right now I think he's only written _The Hobbit_. You'll like the rest, too. You like Edgar Rice Burroughs. Your favorite radio show is the Midnight Racer. As for music—" he tries to remember Steve's CD collection— "you like Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw. Frank Sinatra."

Rogers raises an eyebrow. "You want me to trust you because you know I like _popular music_?" He scoffs and crosses his arms.

He does have a point, but Tony was hoping to get through with this by sticking to the less personal information. He supposes he won't have a shot at all unless he delves deeper.

"Your favorite kind of bagel is sesame seed," says Tony, and Rogers blinks. "You like to sing in the shower," Tony adds, when Rogers says nothing.

Rogers' eyes are a little wider, but then he draws himself up, regroups. "So maybe they put a lot of little details about me in those books. That doesn't translate to me trusting—"

Tony cuts him off. "When you were a kid, your best friend was a boy named Arnie Roth. You were a scrawny kid, but you always had a mouth on you, and that made you a target for the bullies. But Arnie was bigger and stronger than you, and he fought them off for you. And his family was always kind, always generous, after your father died and you and your mother needed all the help you could get." Rogers is staring, open-mouthed, and Tony presses his advantage. "You drifted away from him when you were a teenager. He'd discovered girls first, and he kept trying to set you up on double dates, and that— it wasn't your scene." Tony had let himself speculate, more than once, guiltily, on why Steve hadn't been into that—but then, Steve had never had any problems (or lack of desire) in picking up women as an Avenger, and at any rate, it really ought not to have appealed to Arnie, either. Maybe Arnie had been been bi. None of it was really Tony's business at all.

Then Rogers blinks and snaps out of it. "So Arnie ended up in one of your books. So what?" He's the toughest of tough customers.

"He enlisted," Tony adds. "Joined the Navy. You ran into him, after Rebirth, but you were only supposed to be Private Rogers, and you couldn't tell him where the extra hundred pounds of muscle had come from since you'd seen him last. So you had to lie. Fob him off with some weak excuse. You still feel guilty about it."

Rogers swallows and licks his lips. But he's not entirely convinced. "Like I said." His voice is minutely unsteady; Tony doesn't think anyone who doesn't know him well would notice. "Maybe he was in one of your books. Maybe someone interviews him, in your world. All this proves nothing. Anyone could learn this about me, couldn't they?"

That leaves one last fact. Tony's last weapon. It's going to hurt. He doesn't want to say this; he doesn't want to use it against him. He doesn't want to hurt him. It was information given in the greatest trust, and this is— this is low and dirty and vile.

But Tony's never been a good man. And he's out of options.

"Your father was a drunk," Tony says, each word measured and precise, and he hates himself as he watches all the color drain from Rogers' face. "He'd come home drunk and broke, stinking of liquor, and he'd say there was no work because the foreman hated Irishmen, but your mother would tell him it was because he wasn't ever sober. And he'd hit her." Rogers flinches hard, the words another blow. "And you were there, a little kid, hiding under the table and watching—"

" _Stop it_." The command is snapped out, a roar. Rogers' face is pale, too pale, and his throat works convulsively, like he's going to be sick. He takes a ragged, shuddering breath, and he closes his eyes briefly. "I have never in my life told anyone about that." The words rasp out of him. There are tears in his eyes.

_You told me_ , Tony wants to say. Half a century and a world away, Steve had told him. The first time he'd told him, Tony had been lying in a Bowery flophouse, too drunk to stand up, and he'd told Steve that Steve could never understand why he needed to drink. And Steve had tried to save him anyway, had carried him out of there when he would have burned alive, because in the old days Steve never gave up on him. In the old days Steve loved him. The last time he'd told him, they'd been standing in the ruins of Avengers Mansion, and Steve had reminded Tony about his father, had thrown it in Tony's face, another punch in the war between them. He'd said he wasn't sure Tony even remembered him saying it, because Tony had been drunk. _What you want trumps everything else_ , Steve had said. _It's a quality I see in a lot of alcoholics_. It was one of the worst things Steve ever said to him. Even now, even knowing how much Tony had struggled to stay clean—all Steve saw in him was his disease. Maybe that's all he is, really, in the end, under all the armor. Weak. Helpless. At the nonexistent mercy of all the darkness within him. Trying desperately to do good and always, always failing. He kills everyone he loves. Sal. Happy. Ru. Steve. He's never good enough to save them. But he gets up every morning and he puts on the uniform he never wanted and he tries to pretend he's not dying inside and he tries not to think about how just one drink could make it all go away. That's not heroism. That's just living. That's just being too cowardly to end it all.

"I know," Tony says, very quietly. "I'm sure you haven't." He essays a smile; he thinks it doesn't really work. "Don't worry," he adds. "I didn't learn that from a book. They don't put that in the history books."

The stricken look on Rogers' face relaxes, fading just a little; Tony guesses he hates to think of his private, personal information in books for anyone to read. "Then how—?"

"I can't tell you," Tony repeats. "I can't tell you how I know. But I need you to trust me. Please, Captain." Does he want him to get on his knees and beg? He'll beg for this. "Please," he says again. "Please. _Steve_." The name weighs heavily on Tony's tongue. Rogers startles hard. "This is what I'm asking for. One mission. We can save your world."

There is no sound in the tent save for the soft susurration of Rogers' breathing, still hitching, like he's still trying to hold back tears. Rogers closes his eyes and scrapes his hand over his face. When he opens his eyes his gaze is pained but steady. His eyes are pale, red-rimmed.

"All right," Rogers says, and Tony lets out the breath he was holding. "You get your mission. Don't make me regret this."

Just once, Tony thinks. Just this once, he can do this. He won't disappoint Captain America. Not again. He gets one last chance to get it right, even if it's with the wrong person.

"I won't," Tony says, and the words echo like a vow. "I promise."

* * *

They let him dump his gear in the equipment tent. Tony gets his gloves and boots off, unbuckles the SHIELD-issue equipment harness and lets it fall, and then carefully skins out of the field uniform, folding it neatly and leaving the harness, with its weaponry, on top. Maybe his counterpart can get some use out of the gear. Tony won't be coming back for it, at any rate. Tony frowns critically at the pulse gun. It's DNA-coded, so his counterpart will be the only person who can use it. He wonders if he should teleport it to him once he's got the Gauntlet. Given how hard he's trying not to spoil their war for them, it would be a shame if he spoiled it with technology.

The undersuit obligingly forms up, golden, shimmering even in the dim winter light. Tony opens the lock on the case with a nudge from Extremis, and with another thought, the armor is around him, panels of crimson metal locking solidly and reassuringly tight, every piece in its proper place. Tony revels in the feel of it. He loves the armor, every smooth, glorious line and curve of it. His masterpiece. His refuge. His protection. He is Iron Man. Iron Man is brave, and doesn't bleed, and doesn't cry. Nothing touches him. He's a hero.

The helmet faceplate drops down and Tony smiles behind it, hidden, a smile no one can see. It feels right. The smallest ember of warmth works into his heart. It's not perfect. Nothing is ever going to be perfect. But this is the best he's got.

This is going to completely freak out the Invaders, though, so he sighs and pushes the faceplate back up with two gauntleted fingers. It's probably best to look at least sort of human.

When he steps outside, Stark's the first to see him. His jaw drops.

"You have no idea how jealous I am right now," he says. He sounds reverent, an engineer appreciating the craft. They are kindred spirits. Hell, they're identical spirits.

Tony manages a jaunty grin. "Actually, I'm pretty sure I know exactly how jealous you are."

Stark laughs. "You have a point." He paces around Tony in a circle, and when he comes back to Tony's front, his eyes are even wider. He holds out a hand, tentatively. "Can I—?"

"Sure," Tony offers. It's the least he can do for himself. "You can definitely feel me up. Anytime."

Stark snorts in annoyance, but his gaze is all rapt attention. His hands move from Tony's shoulder to the chestpiece, across the unibeam housing, over to his other shoulder. He's lifting Tony's arm, flexing the joint, checking the articulation with the deft touch of a professional.

"This is incredible," Stark breathes. He whistles, low and impressed. "What kind of charge do you get on it? How many hours can you run?"

"Uh," Tony says. "I don't exactly... need to charge it. At all. Anymore."

Stark's eyes are at their widest yet. "Wow. Amazing." He's shaking his head a little. Then he squints. "Hey, where are the guns?"

"No guns." Tony taps a finger against the unibeam housing, and then turns his palm over and wiggles his fingers, showing off the dimmed light of the repulsor. "But I do pretty well for myself anyway."

"Wow. I wish I could—" He trails off, but Tony knows exactly what he was going to say. It's what he would have said. It's what he would have wanted.

Tony shakes his head. "You can't wear the suit. You literally can't. You can fit in the outer armor, since we're the same size, but it'd be like walking around in plate mail, that's all. Nothing special. The fancier stuff, flight, defense—none of it will transfer. Sorry. The controls will only work for me."

Stark grins. "Well. Can't blame a fella for asking." He starts to turn, to head off.

"Hey," Tony says, and Stark turns back. He feels like he ought to say something. He won't be coming back, after all. "Seems to me like you've got a good life here. You seem... happy." It's strange to think of himself as happy.

The smile this time is a little softer. Gentler. Like he's thinking of something good. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I am. Happy, that is."

"Take care of yourself, huh?" It's the only thing he can think of, that he's wanted for himself. It feels profoundly selfish to want this. "Stay happy."

"I'll try," Stark says, and now the smile is awkward. "And if you find something that makes you happy, you hold onto it, okay?"

He'd tried. God, he'd tried.

Tony's throat is tight. "Yeah," he says. "I'll— I'll do what I can." He clears his throat. "Anyway, I should— I should go check out those monastery plans."

He can't face himself anymore, and he turns and heads for the tent of the man he wants to face even less.

If Rogers has a reaction to seeing Tony five inches taller and encased in armor, he doesn't show it. There's no expression on his face. Rogers sits quietly next to unrolled maps, and Tony pages through them, scanning and committing them all into local storage. Wordlessly, Rogers taps a room on one of the monastery floor plans, and Tony supposes that's where the Infinity Gauntlet was the last time he saw it.

"It should be easy enough," Tony says. "Fly into the central courtyard, take out anyone Hydra or AIM that we see, get the Gauntlet."

"And come back?" Rogers prompts. "What's your exit plan?"

Tony shakes his head. "Don't need much of one. Once I get the Gauntlet, I should be able to set up two single-entry portals. One for me, back to my time in my universe. One for you, back here. They'll close automatically behind each of us." He hopes he'll be able to do that. He's pretty sure he'll be able to do anything he wants. "I'll pass you the Gauntlet and go. You'll carry the Gauntlet and end up back here when I'm gone. Don't put it on. Don't even try. Ideally, remove the Gems, split them up, and put them somewhere no one can get to them. No one should have this. Even your own government shouldn't have this. It's too much power for anyone."

Tony Stark, Illuminati member and current wielder of his own universe's Reality Gem, is a giant fucking hypocrite. This is not news. But it's not like the Illuminati are planning on using their Infinity Gauntlet, or even any of the Gems. No, this will be a first.

He hopes they listen to him and split the Gems when they're done, though. They don't need the attention from the rest of the universe. He doesn't even want to think about how fast Thanos could flatten this place. He wonders if Thanos exists here. He really hopes not.

Rogers' eyes narrow. "But it's enough power for you, is it?"

"It's not like I'm looking forward to letting the full force of Infinity into my brain!" Tony says, exasperated. "Look, you don't have to like me, but—"

"I didn't say I didn't—"

"—you do have to trust me on this. I'd say you should do it, but I've got more experience with portals."

Rogers frowns. "You'd trust _me_? You don't even know me."

Ha.

"You're Captain America." Tony redirects the answer into something that isn't exactly a lie. "Who wouldn't trust you?"

Mollified, Rogers gives him a grudging nod.

It'll all be okay. Tony's going home in an hour. It doesn't matter what he says to them. He'll never see these people again.

* * *

"You want me to do what?" Rogers asks.

Tony's standing in the middle of the camp holding out his arms. "You're going to hug me. Basically. It'll be easy. You come here, stand on top of my boots— yeah, like that—"

Suddenly Rogers is way, way too close, and Tony swallows hard. In dim, soft-edged memories, he practiced this with Steve, a long time ago, when they were nearly as young as this. They'd swooped and slipped and once Tony had almost dropped Steve off the roof of the mansion. Eventually they'd gotten the hang of it. He'd always secretly liked it, carrying Steve.

It's one item on a long list of things he'll never be able to do again.

Rogers is nowhere near as confident; the arms that go around Tony are awkwardly braced. His weight isn't quite balanced right, and Tony braces him with one of his arms. It won't be the best flight he's ever had, but it doesn't have to be. It just has to get them to Monte Cassino.

"Ready?" Tony asks. Rogers nods once, and Tony flips the armor faceplate down; the familiar HUD overlays his vision.

_Flight enabled_ , Extremis whispers, and the boot jets whine, a smooth easy charge.

And then they're aloft, fifteen feet up in an instant. Rogers lurches against him and locks his arms more tightly around Tony. Below them the Invaders stare, heads tilted back.

Tony switches to external speakers. "He'll be back in a bit," he calls down. "Don't worry."

From the ground, Stark waves. So does Bucky.

"Shall we?" he asks, and when his own voice echoes in his helmet and COMMUNICATIONS FAILURE blares across his eyes he realizes he must have unconsciously switched to the field comms. Probably the Avengers channel. He checks and cringes, because, even worse, he picked Steve's private comm line out of pure reflex. That's... not going to work, for multiple reasons. 1940s radio technology is definitely not there yet.

He realizes he's going to have to coordinate an attack without local battlefield comms. Rogers isn't wired for sound. It's like the Stone Age. At least there's only the two of them. It's still going to be a mess.

Think positively, he tells himself. Maybe they'll hardly have to fight anyone.

He repeats the question on speakers, and Rogers nods again. "Let's go."

They fly in silence; it would have been hard to talk anyway, without comms, and Tony thinks Rogers is busy taking in the view from above. The monastery is soon in sight, perched on top of a hill, Monte Cassino itself. Very defensible, Tony notes, and then his sensors zero in on the line of men on the roof.

"Looks like a party," Tony grits out, and against him Rogers grunts in surprise as Tony flips onto his back to shield him and keeps coasting. He wasn't anticipating that move—but then, this man has never flown with Tony.

The first bullets ping harmlessly against Tony's armored spine, between his shoulder blades, and he has to give Hydra points for effort, if nothing else.

"More men here than before!" Rogers yells into the wind. "They were expecting us!"

It makes sense; they probably guessed the Invaders wanted the Cube back. They can't know that Tony knows about the Gauntlet. So much for subterfuge and secrecy. This one's going in this world's history books.

They need to get inside, but in the courtyard they'll be sitting ducks for the men who line the roofs from all four sides. Roofs first, then.

"I'll drop you on the closest roof," Tony says, "and you can take it while I take one of the other sides. We need to clear them out before we can enter." Images resolve on the sensors as Tony spirals down. There are about ten men on each roof, all in classic Hydra green and yellow jumpsuits, all heavily armed.

If this had been Steve, he would have been positioned, ready to go, crouched to spring off Tony's body in midflight and land on the closest roof. They would have worked together like a well-oiled machine. Because this isn't Steve, Tony nearly has to hover as Rogers jumps off him, landing in an ungainly wobble. He makes up for it fast, unslinging his shield and swinging it at the first of the Hydra agents who comes running up to him.

Tony heads for the next roof, skidding onto his knees and breaking roof tiles as he lands. There are Hydra agents on his left and right, and he flings up his hands in either direction, knocking them down in a wave of repulsor energy. Blood is pounding in his ears; adrenaline makes everything sharp-edged. He hasn't been in the field like this in months, and it feels... good. This is his job, his real job. He's a superhero.

He's got nothing to worry about, he thinks, tapping the boot jets on with a thought, as he hops to the roof after that.

"Hail—" the first Hydra agent begins, and Tony doesn't wait to find out if the next word is _Hydra_ or _Hitler_ before hitting him with repulsor blasts from both hands. It doesn't matter, anyway.

The three men behind him only have machine guns, nothing in a caliber that would even come close to hurting him, and Tony grins wild and feral behind his mask, because he is not going to have a problem here. He steps forward and takes out the rest of the men on the roof in another wide, lazy sweep with one hand. He would almost feel bad but, well, it's Hydra. Everyone here knew what they signed up for.

He turns his head and glances over, and Rogers has leaped to the next roof, their last roof, flinging his shield at the first man there, and for an awful instant Tony forgets everything that's wrong with his life. It's Cap, they're fighting together, like they always do—and then reality comes crashing back in. It's not Steve.

When Tony turns his head back, some kind of gun emplacement is swiveling toward him. _Bring it on_ , Tony thinks. He's not afraid. They can't even hurt—

He leaps backwards in instinctive flight as a bright green energy bolt crackles through the air and hits the roof where Tony was standing, leaving a smoldering hole.

"Hey, that's cheating!" Tony yells, indignant, as Extremis overlays on his vision an infrared heatmap with temperatures that would be very uncomfortable even for him. Someone brought a goddamn plasma cannon to the party. Someone's been helping out the Nazis. Someone else who shouldn't be here. Tony's got no idea who—the list ranges from other pissed-off time-travelers to entire alien races—but whoever they are, they clearly mean business.

Luckily, the weapon seems to be unfamiliar to the agents operating it, and as they fumble with aiming Tony swoops in and lights it up with the unibeam. Target locked.

The plasma cannon explodes in a brilliant fireball, pluming upward, and Tony glances back to see Rogers' stunned face in the light of the explosion. Rogers has knocked out almost all the rest of the agents. He has about five to go.

"That'll bring 'em running!" Rogers calls out.

Because he prides himself on being helpful, Tony hops over to the roof Rogers is on, automatically falling into the familiar position at his six, hands raised. But it's not familiar for Rogers, and realizing that jars Tony with grief. Rogers isn't fighting like he expects Tony to be at his side, like he expects Tony to cover him. He's weak on his left too—he's not quite blocking as fast as he should be—and Tony realizes too that he still has room for improvement. He might be a super-soldier, but he's young. Tony had never noticed way back when; as far as he was concerned, Steve had hung the moon.

So Tony steps up and covers him and knocks the last Hydra agent down, because he'll be damned if he's going to let Steve Rogers die again.

Rogers leaps down into the empty courtyard. It would be a pretty place, Tony thinks, if not for the war. A line of elegant pillars marches down one side.

Tony drops to an easy landing next to him. "Good," he says. "If that explosion got their attention, then they'll be out here and we'll be inside. Lead the way."

Rogers grins a bloodied grin—he's a comrade in the midst of the fight, guarding Tony's back. It's a face Tony's seen a thousand times, and his heart clenches up. Then Rogers lifts his shield and runs. Tony follows him to the colonnade, then inside, downstairs, down a corridor, and into a room—at which point he stumbles into Rogers, who has frozen in the doorway.

The room is empty. There is absolutely nothing here.

Rogers swears, and Tony switches to full sensors. He's still getting weird readings, cosmic-level readings, but they seem to be coming from... below?

"Hey, Cap?" Tony asks. "Was there a level beneath this one, on your plans?" Even as he asks, he's flipping though the scans he made of the maps. Nope.

Rogers shakes his head. "It should be solid rock."

"Yeah, well," Tony says, turning to scan the room, "I'm getting readings from beneath— ha!"

What should be solid stone thins in the middle of one wall, and Tony laughs.

"What?"

"There's something behind that wall," Tony says. "Hydra, I swear. Secret passageways. They really need some new tricks."

"I feel like I'm in a Marvels issue," Rogers says. There's a gleam of delight in his eyes. "Tony will be sorry he missed this."

"You can tell him all about it later." Tony raises his hands. "Stand behind me."

"What are you going to do?" Rogers asks, excited. "Is there— maybe there's a brick you press on— you could—"

Tony blasts half the wall into rubble. There's a staircase heading down, and a door at the end of it.

"Or you could do that," Rogers concludes, voice a little sour.

Tony smiles, but Rogers can't see it with the mask down. "Sorry. In a bit of a hurry here."

The staircase is dim, but the room it opens onto is cavernous and bright—at first, Tony has the crazy thought that they've carved out the entire hill. It looks like a factory floor beneath them; they're standing at the edge of a maze of catwalks. Forty feet beneath them, people in yellow beekeeper suits scurry back and forth— _Great_ , Tony thinks, _an AIM-Hydra coproduction_ —and they appear to be producing rows and rows of small clear boxes. It doesn't make any sense, Tony thinks, and then something clicks.

Those are empty storage matrices for Cosmic Cubes. It's not just one. They're running a goddamn assembly line.

Well, one of these days AIM was due for an advanced idea that wasn't entirely idiotic.

The energy signature Tony's coming to associate with the Infinity Gauntlet is close by, but not in the room. A quick scan leads Tony to focus on a huge steel door, solid and locked, like a vault door, at the far end of all the catwalks, all the way across the room. It has to be in there. He'd stake his life on it. He actually is staking his life on it.

As if on cue, a klaxon begins to blare, and the lights overhead flash red. Wonderful.

Rogers looks around. "I think they know we're here." He raises his shield.

"Gee, you think?" Tony retorts.

Another door at the far end of the room opens. It's half-shadowed by an overhang, and Tony can't quite make out what's stepped through other than that it's big. Massive. Definitely not a normal human. There's the squeaking of wheels, like something is rolling forward.

"Quiet that infernal noise!" a voice shrieks, a voice that hovers on the edge of familiarity. "I will face my foes in silence!"

The klaxon obligingly shuts off and the lights return to normal.

The looming shape in the dimness rolls forward. Tony raises his hands, and Rogers tenses, lifting his shield higher.

The entity is a huge pale head, the height of a man. Metal lines the back of his skull; wiring protrudes like a macabre science experiment. There are sweeping angles of metal that could be almost pretty if not for the grotesque way they burrow into his skin. There are huge vacuum tubes and wires sparking about his neck, where it attaches to the wheeled frame beneath. His arms and legs are almost completely atrophied. It is mad-science taken to the absolute mad-science extreme, 1940s-style.

"Captain America," MODOK intones. "I see you've brought a friend."

"Oh, for _fuck's sake_ ," Tony says, because he really does not need this today.

Rogers slants Tony a bemused glance, and then his gaze returns to MODOK. "I don't think we've met. Not personally, anyway."

It could be worse, Tony tells himself. At least it's not Jessica Drew, Hydra agent. Tony would feel pretty bad about having to take Jess down.

"I am a Mobile Organism Designed Only for Killing!" MODOK declaims, like he's been waiting his entire life for Rogers to give him the opportunity to introduce himself. He rolls further forward, and one of his wheels squeaks again.

Tony snorts with barely-suppressed laughter. "Forgive me for mentioning the obvious, but you're a lot less mobile than usual. What happened to the flight?"

MODOK turns his giant gaze on Tony. "Do I know you?"

"I'm Iron Man." Tony stands a little taller.

"Then you should know well, Iron Man," MODOK snarls, "for it is you I have to thank for my condition! You destroyed every last one of my levitation prototypes and I shall have my revenge!"

He sprays a hail of bullets, which Rogers easily blocks with the shield. Tony stands there and lets the bullets bounce off him. Rogers has to block one of the ricochets from Tony, at which point Tony revises his plan and ducks back into the hallway that the two of them came from. Rogers follows.

"Tony fought him?" Tony asks in an undertone, and Rogers nods.

Rogers is bright-eyed with that damn hero-worship again. Steve never looked at him like that. "It was in Marvels."

"Great," Tony says. He raises his voice to MODOK, who is reloading, to judge by the sound of metal on metal. "I want you to know I understand how you feel," he calls back, "and it's lovely to see you again, but I'm a little pressed for time and you could really save yourself a lot of trouble if you just opened the door to the Infinity Gauntlet for us."

Tony peers around the corner. 

MODOK's bewildered frown is huge. "The Infinity what?"

"The Infinity Gauntlet," Tony repeats. "The thing behind that big door there. Shiny rainbow glove. I know you've got it."

"Ah!" MODOK brightens. "The Cube Constructor!"

They don't know what it is, Tony realizes. How the hell don't they know?

Tony starts laughing. "Oh God, they don't," he manages, and Rogers looks concerned; laughter never comes out sounding well through the suit filters. "I'm fine, I'm fine. But it's just— they _don't know_. They've—ha, _fuck—_ they've got the Infinity Gauntlet and they think it only makes Cosmic Cubes!"

It's not like it's a bad use for the Infinity Gauntlet, because you do need fairly good technology to channel the transdimensional energies into a Cube. It's kind of diabolically ingenious, actually, and better than Tony would usually give AIM credit for, but it is incredibly limiting compared to the Gauntlet's full power. Tony hopes no one ever tells them what it can really do.

"How many Cubes have you made?" Rogers calls out to MODOK.

MODOK laughs. "Our plans are glorious! You will never stop AIM!"

Inside the suit, Tony rolls his eyes. "That means just the one, Captain."

MODOK is, tellingly, silent.

"Listen," Tony asks, voice pitched low, "do you want to just take him out already?" Rogers raises his eyebrows, a silent question. "I mean," he offers, "I can do it if you really don't want to, but punching MODOK in the face is practically a superhero rite of passage where I'm from, and I'd hate for you to miss out on your chance."

Rogers' stare is the kind of withering gaze that suggests that he can't tell how much seriousness underlies the seemingly-flippant suggestion. He clearly doesn't know his world's Stark at all. 

"I'm one hundred percent serious right now," Tony clarifies helpfully. "He's not one of my favorite people and he's in my goddamn way."

Disbelief still lurking in his eyes, Rogers slides the shield off his arm. Tony waits to see if he's going to stow the shield and run out and start punching, but instead he balances it in his hand and aims for... one of the other walls of the huge room. An instant before the shield leaves his hand, Tony realizes what Rogers is actually planning. 

It's a spectacular throw. The shield ricochets off one wall, then another, then another, building up speed until it's nothing more than a blinding red and blue blur, spinning faster and faster still. On the last pass, it collides with MODOK's giant head, ringing out against the metal that supports him. He cries out, wobbles on his little wheels, and topples unceremoniously over the railing to the factory floor below, and even the catwalk shakes with the impact as he lands.

There's chaos on the floor as the AIM beekeepers gather around him.

Rogers holds up a hand and catches the shield easily as it returns. 

"I'm sorry," he says, frowning, when Tony has said nothing. "Did you actually want me to punch him? I just figured this way would be easier. Since you're in a hurry to get home and all."

"No, no," Tony says hastily, "this is fine too." 

He'd almost forgotten how amazing it was to fight with Steve, to watch him really work with the shield like it was an extension of his body, to watch him pull off one of those unbelievable throws.

This isn't Steve, he reminds himself. 

The room echoes as MODOK screams in inarticulate pain and rage, from somewhere below them on the factory floor. 

Rogers' grimace is shaded with guilt. "You think he'll be okay?"

"Oh, he'll be fine," says Tony, who has never once worried about MODOK's health. "The guy's like a bad penny. The ultimate in bad pennies. You can never get rid of him, believe me. He'll just harvest some new cloned organs and be right as rain."

Rogers looks a little pale. "He'll what?"

It's 1943. There's no cloning yet. No one should even know about DNA yet. Tony doesn't want to think about where MODOK gets new organs from.

"Uh," Tony says. "Never mind. I think we should probably get to the Infinity Gauntlet now."

Too busy with the fallen MODOK, none of the beekeepers so much as look up as the two of them barrel across the catwalk to the huge steel door at the far end of the room. Rogers is first, shield held out in front of him; Tony flies behind at what is for him a leisurely pace, arms in front of him.

"It's a vault door!" Rogers calls out, unnecessarily; the giant lock is plainly obvious. "My shield will break it, if your machines can't unlock—"

Tony blasts the door off its hinges. The twisted metal flips off the catwalk and falls, thunderously loud as it hits the floor. Rogers pauses to watch.

"If you wanted lock-picking and mystery and adventures worthy of a pulp magazine," Tony says, feeling a satisfied grin spread across his face, "you should have let the other me come. I just blast things."

He could have scanned it and worked out the lock combination, true, but this way is more fun. He's also always up for property damage to AIM.

"Anything else you want to ruin before you leave?" Rogers asks, dry-voiced, but at least he's started running again, and they dive through the still-smoking doorway together.

The room is small but high-ceilinged, stone-walled. In the center of the room is a pedestal, and on that pedestal lies the Infinity Gauntlet, glowing in a familiar rainbow shimmer. Tony catches his breath in wonder.

"Well," Tony says, "there's your Infinity Gauntlet."

Rogers slides the shield onto his back and puts his hands on his hips, satisfied. "Yeah." His voice sounds weary. "That's what I saw."

Tony's breath echoes and rattles inside his helmet. He doesn't want to do this. He remembers Reed's face when he'd slipped the Gauntlet on, when the Illuminati had finally assembled it, in the moments before the Watcher had appeared. He wonders if Uatu is watching this now, if he's going to stop him. He wishes someone else could do this. But Steve Rogers of Earth-whatever-this-is knows fuck-all about portals, so it has to be Tony.

"No time like the present," Tony says, swallowing in a vain attempt to moisten his dry mouth, and he holds out his left arm. His own gauntlet drops off, pieces of metal ringing against the bare-metal floor, and in another instant the undersuit melts back into his bones. He's barehanded.

Before he can convince himself not to, Tony takes three quick steps forward, scoops up the Infinity Gauntlet, and slides it onto his hand.

His mind lights up.

It's like Extremis has accessed the universe's best server farm, like there's more processing power brimming in his synapses than he knows what to do with. He can see everything; if he pushes his awareness out he can see the country, the continent, the world. All mysteries are revealed. He's smarter, faster, stronger, better. A god among men. A god among gods.

_Network connection established_ , Extremis whispers. _Infinity is online_.

He was wrong to fear this. Think of all the good he could do. There's so much he can accomplish. He can do anything, anything he puts his mind to. Every command he wants to give will be instantly obeyed. Extremis is crude and primitive compared to the shining beauty of cosmic power.

He could be his best self.

His mistakes are blemishes on his soul.

He could take every one of them back.

Someone is talking to him.

"Portals," someone says, and Tony, annoyed, drags his attention back to the mundane. Who could interrupt him when there are so many bigger things to ponder? Don't they know?

Tony blinks. It's Rogers. And then he remembers what he's doing.

"This is harder than I thought it would be," Tony says.

He thought he could ride the power, not be pulled under. Not let it use him. He should have known he's always had problems with that.

_Dimensional transit_ , he tells Infinity through Extremis, and the Space Gem gleams in eagerness in the forefront of his mind. _Multiverse look-up: Earth-616_. Where's the SHIELD helicarrier today? Never mind, he'll use something fixed. _United States, New York, New York City, Manhattan, Avengers Tower, penthouse level—_ what are the coordinates, again? Oh, and the time travel, he can't forget that—

_Proximity alert_ , says Extremis, echoing with the power of the universe, rippling gold and rainbow through his mind.

And then there's someone else in the room.

The Hydra agent who strides in is clearly in a different class altogether from the rest of them, or at least he has a weirder sense of fashion. He's wearing an odd double-breasted cowled suit, accented with Hydra yellow on the equipment belt and green on the gloves and high collar, with the usual tentacled skull emblazoned across his chest. He's tall, auburn-haired, and his grin is on the wrong side of sane. He has a pistol in one hand... and a Cosmic Cube in the other.

"Oh, Captain America!" The man's eyes brighten in a way that only manages to add to his general instability. "Wow, excellent! I'm having the best day! You have no idea how much I've wanted to meet you!" He flings his arms out like he's thinking about hugging Rogers, Cube and gun notwithstanding.

Rogers shifts uncomfortably and raises the shield.

Something about the man's voice, the flamboyant swoops and pitch of it, is ringing a bell. _No visual match_ , Extremis says. Most of his pre-Extremis memories are tagged and sorted in the filesystem of his brain visually now, but whoever this guy is, Tony hasn't actually _seen_ him.

"What," Tony asks, annoyed, "and the guy holding the Infinity Gauntlet is chopped liver?"

The Hydra agent regards him with a disdainful, yet surprised, look. "You _really_ aren't supposed to know that name, mister."

"Let's just say I'm not from around here," Tony says, gritting his teeth. "I'm Iron Man. Earth-616 says hi."

"I," the man says, floridly, sketching out a bow, "am the Sensational Hydra."

Tony knows that name, and immediately knows why he doesn't know that face. After they'd all come back from Onslaught, the Sensational Hydra had captured Steve and impersonated him on national television. Tony and Reed had worked frantically to create a device that would reveal his true self, because— because—

"You're a Skrull," Tony says, flatly.

Goddammit, he just wants to go home. _Cosmic energies will interfere with accurate transit_ , Extremis says. _The nearby Cosmic Cube is an unstable containment matrix._

It definitely looks like something's happened to the Cube; it doesn't have the usual steady glow. Tony guesses AIM still has a few kinks to work out. But the Skrulls probably gave them a great head start.

The Sensational Hydra pouts. "Aww, now you've gone and spoiled my surprise."

Rogers is staring between both of them. "What's going on?"

"Nothing to worry about, Captain," Tony says, quickly. "He's just an alien, that's all."

Rogers' eyes are wide. "An alien?"

Whoops.

As Tony watches, the Sensational Hydra starts to shift, his uniform changing from green and yellow to a familiar red, white, and blue. His hair begins to lighten to blond and—

Tony reaches out hard with the Reality Gem. _Revert_ , he thinks, and the Hydra uniform is back; the man's face begins to turn Skrull-green. "Yeah, no," Tony says. "We're not doing that today. How about you drop the gun and then tell me how many Skrulls are on-planet?"

He leans hard on the Mind Gem, and the pistol falls from the Sensational Hydra's fingers. The Cosmic Cube's looking a little flickery, wreathing the Skrull's green hands in blue energies, and Tony doesn't want to push on that. He can keep the Skrull from using it, at least. And, hey, he's got the universe's best truth serum in his hands.

"Just me," the Sensational Hydra says, the words forced out of him.

_Confirmed_ , Extremis says, with all the power of Infinity behind it. Tony sees a spinning globe in wireframe, one blinking dot marked.

"Well," Tony says, "that explains where Hydra got the tech and the Gauntlet from. What are you, the vanguard of the Skrull invasion? Did you actually get the Nazis to agree to roll over and hand you the planet if they won? I know you know the Infinity Gauntlet would have been faster."

"Yes, it would have been faster," he says, and his smile is wide and and sinister, "but this way is ever so much more fun."

"Mmm," Tony says. "What do they think of your plans? I'm finding it hard to believe you got Strucker to make you Supreme Hydra—"

"Sensational Hydra," the Skrull says, with a moue of disappointment. "Please."

"Sensational Hydra, then." Tony glares. "Were you ever planning on telling them what the Infinity Gauntlet actually did, either?"

He clenches his fist. The Gems gleam.

"Certainly not." The Skrull shakes his head and laughs. He doesn't seem to care about the power Tony has over him. He must know. He's crazy, but he can't be that dumb. "Your species' stupid minds are so easy to mold. They will believe what they like, and then it will be too late."

"Time to go back to Skrullos," Tony says, and he pushes hard with the Space Gem. The air behind the Skrull opens up, a shimmering portal. "Thanks for the chat." Tony ignores the repeated transit-accuracy warning. He doesn't really care where this asshole ends up, as long as it's not on this planet.

The Skrull laughs and laughs. He's still laughing.

"Do you think I never planned for this, human?" he asks. "There are powers that even the Infinity Gauntlet will not save you from. Cosmic Cubes, when unstable, tend to be quite deadly."

Cackling, he leaps backwards through the portal—and, as he falls, he lobs the Cosmic Cube at Tony's head.

" _Break_ ," he snarls.

The portal closes behind him.

The Cube arcs through the air, trailing blue energy. As Tony watches, one of its faces shatters.

Rogers brings up his shield.

"Behind me, Captain!" Tony yells, because there's no way vibranium will protect them from this.

Tony raises his gauntleted fist, the back of his hand facing the Cube. _Protect us,_ he thinks. _Shield us, shield us, shield us_.

A wavering iridescent bubble emerges from the shine of the Gems, spreading across the room in front of them. A shield. A barrier.

The Cube hits the barrier. Tony's vision goes white. Circuitry outlines itself in fire before his eyes, and energy washes down into him. He's off his feet, flying across the room, and he collides hard with the wall behind him. The back of his head smashes into the inside of the helmet, his ears ring, and he tastes blood. Rogers is next to him, likewise thrown against the wall. The room is blue-white with cosmic energy, still pressing on the barrier. The rainbow iridescence flickers gray.

More power, Tony thinks. They need more power, or they'll die here.

_Safety override against cosmic forces_ , Extremis whispers. _Storage matrix must be disabled to access cosmic countermeasures. Yes/no?_

_Yes_ , Tony thinks, because he has no choice, because there's nothing else to do.

The Gauntlet disappears.

The Gems are still there, floating in midair, and as they move forward Tony can see what's going to happen, can see the future in all its agonizing truth. The Gauntlet is broken and the Gems will be gone.

"No!" Tony yells, inaudible over the roar of energy. "No, don't go! _I didn't get what I wanted!_ "

_Acknowledged_ , Extremis whispers, all of Infinity backing it, and then the Gems themselves hit the barrier.

One by one they disappear. The Soul Gem goes first, and then the Mind Gem, and Tony can— he can see them on a map in his head. They're not breaking. They're scattering. He can feel the pull the other four have to them, like an anchor. And then the Space Gem winks out and the map is gone. The Time Gem disappears. The Reality Gem is gone. The last Gem to leave is the Power Gem, and as its red light fades, the barrier finally falls. There is no cosmic energy left. It's over.

The room is a wreck. There are bricks all around them, fallen from the walls, and half the ceiling seems to have caved in at some point when Tony wasn't looking.

Rogers coughs and pushes himself to his feet.

"Are you all right?" Tony asks.

Rogers nods; he's looking around the room in a kind of horrified awe. "What _was_ that?"

"Apparently that's what happens when you chuck a Cosmic Cube at the Infinity Gauntlet." Tony sighs. "No more portals for me. I didn't even get to make a wish."

"If you didn't make a wish," Rogers asks, "then how do you explain _that_?" He points.

And that's when Tony sees the figure on the floor, on the far side of the room, lying supine in the wreckage.

He's wearing a red, white, and blue uniform, achingly familiar. He has no shield, but every hole in the uniform is exactly as it is in Tony's memory, the gloves torn just so, the trousers ripped. Tony spent hours sitting next to his body, after all. The blue scale mail is broken at the shoulder, but the skin visible beneath it is unmarred. The torso of the uniform is ripped open, three bullet holes precisely placed, but even though blood stains the fabric, there's nothing underneath but pale, perfect skin. The cowl is pulled back, and his face is— God, he looks _right_. He's at least a decade older than the man standing next to Tony, and even with his eyes shut he looks weary. But his face is _alive_ , suffused with blood, with life and warmth, with nothing of the cold waxy pallor of the dead.

His chest rises and falls. He's _breathing_.

Tony can feel tears begin to track down his face.

The Infinity Gauntlet gave Tony what he wanted most, the deepest wish of his heart. It wasn't a portal home. It was him.

_Steve_.

* * *

Data from Extremis' medical sensors is filling Tony's vision: heartbeat, temperature, respiration. Steve is alive. Unconscious, but alive.

Tony's across the room as fast as he can climb over the rubble. It can't be real. This can't be happening. He's crouched at Steve's side in an instant. He shoves his faceplate up. With his gauntleted hand he tilts Steve's head back; his still-bare hand reaches unerringly for the pulse at Steve's carotid, because Tony's had way more practice than anyone should with battlefield first aid. Steve's skin is warm under his fingertips. Steve's pulse is a healthy, steady thrum against Tony's fingers.

It's real. He's not hallucinating. It's no Extremis-fueled fantasy. The Infinity Gauntlet can bring back the dead. He should have remembered that.

Oh, God. Tony's hand is shaking against Steve's skin. Tony's entire body is trembling. Everything's starting to feel a little hazy and unreal, but he has to hold it together, just a little longer, because now he's not going home but they have to get out of here before every inhabitant of this Hydra base comes for them.

"You wished for _me_?" Rogers asks, voice clouded in utter confusion. "I don't understand. There was an alien and he turned green and threw the Cube and then you wished for another me? Another me from another universe?"

"From _my_ universe," Tony says, tightly. There's a lump in his throat, and it hurts to talk. He can't look away from Steve's face. He holds out his hand and lets the pieces of his missing gauntlet fly to him and form up.

There's a pause. "How do you know he's from your universe? Are there machines— does your armor tell you that?"

Tony shakes his head. "No, but I know he's from my universe." He sighs. "Because this is exactly how he looked, when— when I killed him."

So much for not telling anyone in this universe anything.

The room is silent.

"You know him," Rogers says, finally. His voice is rough, harsh, betrayed.

Tony sighs again. "Yeah," he says. "I know him."

_We're friends_ , Tony wants to say, but they aren't, are they? No one who's done what they've done to each other gets to call it friendship. But the bond was always between them, an immense weight of shared history. There's no word for it, nothing that can explain them.

Steve's probably going to try to kill him, when he wakes up.

And Tony will let him.

"We have to get out of here," Rogers says. The words are cold, remote. He's clearly not going to deal with Tony's lies right now.

Tony's head snaps up, and he meets Rogers' gaze. "We're _not leaving him_." The words come out of Tony's mouth in a twisted, bitter snarl, every ounce of protectiveness and anger in him poured out. He couldn't save Steve before. He couldn't stop it. But Steve's here now, Steve's _alive_ , and Tony will spend everything within himself until there's nothing of him left, if it gets Steve out of here. He's not going to make the same mistake twice.

Rogers holds up his hands in surrender, looking at Tony like he didn't expect anywhere near that level of vehemence. "Okay," he says. "Okay, we're not leaving him. But you said you could only carry one person, and if I'm on foot getting all of us out of here is going to be trickier." He takes a breath. "What if I carry him, and you carry me?"

"If you drop him—" Tony begins, and he snaps his mouth shut because he doesn't want to know what threat is about to come out of his mouth.

"I won't," Rogers promises, and he's fishing something out of his belt pockets. Carabiners and some kind of filament. They both have sturdy belts. "I'll tie us together, okay?"

There's a note in his voice that's gentling, almost patronizing, like he thinks Tony needs to calm down, like he doesn't know what Tony's going to do. Tony thinks he's probably terrifying right now. He doesn't care.

"Okay," Tony says. "Okay, do it."

Rogers bends down and gathers up Steve, who slumps limply in his arms, and God, what if he never wakes up?

_I never meant to bring you here_ , thinks Tony, but he can't ask for forgiveness, because he doesn't deserve it. For anything.

* * *

The flight is silent. Tony cuts all the armor's light emissions and sets up jamming for everything he can think of that might track him; he knows nothing in the forties can spot him except visual observation—and that only if they are phenomenally lucky—but he has no idea if the Sensational Hydra left Hydra any other fabulous parting gifts. He takes them almost as fast as he knows Rogers can go and stay conscious; he doesn't want to push it any faster for fear of harming Steve.

They land carefully in the middle of the camp, and the Invaders come running. Stark's at the head of the pack, with Bucky and the rest behind him.

"We weren't tracked," Tony blurts out, which is important but possibly not the most salient thing to start with, as Rogers steps off him. Tony flips the suit faceplate up and gets to watch the team's expression shift with his unaided eyesight.

"What went wrong?" Stark calls out. "Are you all right? Why the hell did you bring back some— oh."

And then Rogers turns, and everyone can see who he's got in his arms. Light gleams off the scale mail. Rogers holding Steve awkwardly, one-armed, trying to unclip the carabiners one-handed.

"Ask him about it," Rogers mutters. "It's his goddamn problem."

"Well," Stark says, when no one else says anything, "this is going to be interesting."

Namor rolls his eyes; Torch, Toro, and Bucky just look stunned.

"Here," Rogers says, tone seething with anger, as Steve sags loosely in his grasp. "Where do you want me to put him?"

Tony holds out his hands. "Give him to me," he snaps, and when Rogers doesn't move fast enough Tony snarls, "Fucking _give him to me_ ," and every one of the Invaders begins to edge away from him. Tony knows that he's broken, he's so very broken, he's been broken since the war started and he doesn't care.

He gets an arm under Steve's legs and his other arm under Steve's shoulders, lifting him up in a familiar hold. They used to carry each other to safety all the time. Just like this. Steve weighs nothing, thanks to the armor.

Turning, Tony heads back to the equipment tent, where his clothing is stashed, because it's the only place they've given him. There's a bedroll there, with crates stacked across half of the tent, affording them the smallest bit of privacy.

Gently, as gently as he can, Tony sets Steve down, behind the stack of crates. He doesn't stir. Extremis whispers in Tony's ear: no change in vital signs. He's fine, just asleep. Which is good, because the standard-issue SHIELD first-aid kit isn't calibrated for super-soldier metabolism. Tony's carrying enough of whatever the newest synthetic opioid is to kill a man, but he knows it won't even make a dent when it's Steve.

Tony wrenches the helmet off entirely and takes a long shaking breath.

He's wanted this too much even to dream of it; he's wanted nothing else for the past six months. He would have traded his own life for this in an instant. And now Steve's here, before him, alive and well, and he doesn't know what to do.

He does want to take the suit off, though. With a single command to Extremis, the armor flies off him and begins to fall into its case; the undersuit melts away. Tony picks up his SHIELD uniform and starts to slide into it. He never took the armor off at all, toward the end of the war—hell, he barely takes it off now—and he knows that Steve hated it, hated what Extremis has done to him. When they met in the mansion, Steve demanded to talk to him face-to-face. Tony gets a second chance, and he owes Steve this. His bare, unarmored heart. Whatever Steve wants to do with him.

He's aware that he's massively, profoundly fucked up. He can't really bring himself to care.

He puts the uniform on, equipment belt and all, but before he sits down he leaves the weapons in a pile within Steve's reach. There. He's unarmed. And Steve can do whatever he wants. Whatever Tony's earned.

"You lied."

It's Steve's voice, except Steve's still unconscious, and Tony looks up from where he's sitting at Steve's side and realizes that Rogers is standing outside the tent.

"Technically I never actually lied," Tony says, and wow, Rogers has gotten really good at that disapproving stare. Rogers' arms are crossed, and he stands planted like nothing can move him. And then he takes a breath and the walls fall.

"The way you looked at me, the way you've been looking at me," Rogers begins. "I thought— I thought it meant something, and you let me think I was wrong. My name was the first thing you said, and you _tricked_ me into believing that we were strangers."

Tony opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Everything you told me, everything you knew about me," Rogers says, and his voice is a harsh croak, "everything—that was all him?"

Tony nods.

"You must know him very well."

Tony sighs. "I've known him for ten years." The truth hurts worse than the lies, somehow. "We were best friends for a decade. Since I was twenty-three. We were friends for practically my entire adult life. And then we fought. And then he died."

Rogers sounds practically broken, and he's not even the one Tony killed. "You— the things you told me— you betrayed his trust."

"Oh, believe me, I betrayed a hell of a lot more than that, by the end." Tony's voice is hard, mocking; he's cutting into himself.

"You _used_ me."

"I used _him_." Everything is numb. It's like nothing can touch him. "And if you want to take it out on me, you can get in line behind him, but I'll probably be dead when he's done with me." He smiles an awful smile, and Rogers recoils.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you tell me you knew me?"

"I wasn't telling you the future, remember?" The words snap out of Tony crisply, like ice. "Telling you I knew you in the twenty-first century is definitely information about the future." He sighs. "He was dead. He wasn't coming back. It wasn't going to fucking matter, okay?"

Rogers throws his hands in the air. "I think it matters now, wouldn't you say?"

Tony takes a breath. "Look," he says. "Whatever you want to know, anything you want to know, I'll tell you. I swear. No lies. No tricks. Just, please, let me sit with him and wait until he wakes up. Then I'll talk."

"You'll forgive me if I don't find any of your assurances especially believable."

Tony meets Rogers' gaze and sees pale eyes gone paler with anger. "I swear on his life," Tony says, because it's the only thing he's got left. It's the only thing that means anything anymore. "Please. Just let me sit here next to him. Until he wakes up."

"And if he doesn't?"

"He'll wake up," Tony says, because he can't contemplate the alternative. "Please. Just leave us alone right now. Please. This is all I want."

Rogers nods curtly and turns, striding away.

Great.

Tony sighs and sits back, drawing his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He looks over at Steve, whose chest still rises and falls, peacefully.

"Damn you," Tony whispers, because he can't say _I hate you_ and he can't say _I love you_. He wonders if Steve will kill him quickly, snap his neck, stab him in the heart. He won't fight back. This is the way the war should have ended. "We were Avengers," he whispers. "We were— we were supposed to be—"

He never wanted any of this.

A sob chokes his throat, and he's crying.

Next to him, Steve's eyes open.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/35691/35691_original.png)


	3. Steve Rogers, Earth-616

When Steve wakes up, he doesn't know where or when he is.

It is, unfortunately, usual for his current state of affairs. He's been thrown through his own past for— he doesn't even know how long it's been now. He's seen D-Day. His mother's death. Fighting Red Skull. Meeting FDR. His own Rebirth, and Erskine's death. Becoming Nomad. Meeting Sam for the first time. He's been stuck in the ice over and over, unable to move but—unlike his actual time in the ice—awake and conscious and exquisitely, horribly aware that no one is coming for him. He's a man out of time in truth now, lost in the past.

If this is some new kind of torture that Red Skull's invented, it's one of the worst.

He's been a passenger in his own body, unable to change anything. He managed to leave Vision a message during the Kree/Skrull War, but the fact that he was able to do it at all makes him suspect that it won't have worked. He's no scientist. He's not Reed or Tony. He doesn't know how to fix this. He's just a soldier, and he's getting very, very weary of the fight.

He keeps his eyes shut, and he keeps his breathing steady, but already he's starting to think that this time might be different from the others. He feels alone in his body. Like it's only him here, and not his past self. It feels like he might be able to effect some actual change in the timeline. He wonders if he's finally cracked. If this is all a dream. If he only thinks that because it's what he desperately wants to believe.

No. He has to trust his perceptions, or he _will_ go crazy. He can't let Red Skull get to him.

Steve takes another breath and considers what he knows about where he is. He's lying on his back. His gloves are ripped—it feels like he's in uniform—and he can feel a coarse blanket under his fingertips. The surface beneath that is hard; he's on the ground. The air is cold—not quite freezing, but nowhere near pleasant. He's outside. He smells dirt. He must be in some kind of shade, because he can't feel the sun on his face.

He's not bound or restrained in any way. He's among friends, then. He hopes. Whatever it is, it's better than the ice again. Anything is better than the ice again.

It's probably the goddamn war—still, again, forever—but this time it feels odd. Usually he's been dropped into the thick of fighting every time, somewhere he can instantly identify. This is downtime. He doesn't remember this.

There's someone next to him. Whoever they are, they're sitting very close by. And they're trying not to cry. He can hear rasping, wet breaths. He's not Logan, to be able to name people by smell alone, but something about the scent is familiar, the tang of metal on his tongue.

Steve opens his eyes, and the last person he ever expected to see looks back at him.

It's Tony.

Tony looks— God, Tony looks _awful_. Tears glisten on his face, and his skin is blotchy from crying. His face is too thin; his cheekbones stand out in sharp definition. He hasn't shaved in days. He's wearing a SHIELD-issue field uniform—still director, then—and the dark suit, which ought to be skin-tight, is baggier than it should be. The uniform's equipment harness is conspicuously bare of the regulation weapons. He's hunched in on himself, sitting with his knees to his chest. They're alone. The two of them are in a canvas tent next to a few covered boxes, and from the tent Steve guesses this is World War II again. 

Tony definitely should not be here.

Steve wonders what the hell Red Skull is playing at. Is this a new twist in the game? Is he making him imagine Tony? Is this an interrogation? Does Red Skull think there's something Steve will give up if he sees a friendly face? If so—Steve nearly wants to laugh—he could have done some goddamn research before picking Tony, because it's not like they have anything to say to each other anymore.

_You know that's not true_ , a tiny voice in the back of his head points out. _You know you never wanted it to be like this. You know he's always been your friend_.

The last time he'd seen Tony was when Tony came to see him on the Raft, the night before his arraignment. Tony hadn't even deigned to look him in the face, hidden by his armor, and he'd told Steve he was a sore loser, like it was all some goddamn game, like people hadn't been _dying_.

Some friend.

"Hi, Tony," Steve says. His voice feels raw, scratchy, as if he's somehow unused to speaking.

Tony trembles like he might cry again, and Steve watches a tear trail down Tony's face and soak into his beard. "Steve," he says, barely above a whisper, like Steve's name is the key to everything. He's looking at him like he's watching a miracle happen. His fingers twitch once, convulsively, like he wants to reach out but doesn't dare. "You're alive."

"I'm alive," Steve agrees. His voice is still hoarse. "And I'm in the war again, aren't I?"

If this is some kind of trick, he's not going to be giving anything away. Red Skull will have known when he is; he's sent him here.

Tony's nod is jerky and his eyes are a little wide, like he's surprised Steve's gotten it that fast. "1943," he says. "December. This is Italy. The Invaders are here. The closest landmark is the monastery at Monte Cassino."

He remembers this, he thinks. The recollection is old, faded, dim even in his serum-enhanced memory; it wasn't especially memorable, because they'd never found anything. The Invaders had been sent to Cassino in pursuit of something called the Ordnung Zeitgeist. Operation Time Ghost, they'd called it. But they'd never found it, whatever it was. The monastery had been entirely unoccupied, the Invaders had moved on, and then a couple months later the Allies had bombarded the entirely-empty monastery in support of the ground war. It hadn't been one of anyone's better tactical decisions. Sometimes the intel was bad. These things happened.

Is this something Red Skull wants to know about? Why would this be important? Why would it be so important that he'd insert this vision of Tony—still as the director of SHIELD, no less—into Steve's rerun of this memory? Nothing happened here. So why is Tony here?

The least he can do is call this fake Tony out on that.

"You're not supposed to be here," Steve tells him.

Tony laughs, a slow sad sound, and he runs his hand through his hair, the way he always does. But then, if Skull is assembling a patchwork of Steve's memories, Tony would behave just as Steve expects him to. His eyes flicker shut.

"No kidding," Tony says. "You can say that again. Believe me, I've been trying to go home."

Huh. Surely Skull's facsimile would try to convince him that he was meant to be here? Surely he would do something to try to win his trust before pumping him for information?

Maybe it's the real Tony.

Maybe Tony's unstuck in time too. Stranger things have happened.

Even if it's not the real Tony, he can still talk to him without giving anything away about this time.

He can stay civil. They can be colleagues. Former colleagues. They're sure as hell not friends anymore.

"Look," Steve begins. "I don't know how long I'm going to be able to stay here. I've never been able to change the past on one of these jumps, but this one feels like maybe I could. And you're the first thing that's been out of place, out of time, and even if it's not really you, even if this is another one of Skull's damn tricks, and even if you still—" he hates how his voice catches— "even if we're not—"

Tony's face has been growing more and more confused as Steve keeps talking, and then Tony interrupts him. "Okay," he says. "Okay, wait. I think I missed something. No, I definitely missed something." He takes a breath. "Back up. Tell me when you think you are."

"The war," Steve repeats, frowning. "Like you said. I haven't been to this part of the war again yet, but I have no idea what _you're_ doing here."

"What do you mean, again?" Tony licks his lips. His eyes are wide. His face is pale, too pale. "You've been time-traveling?" he murmurs.

Wouldn't Red Skull make a Tony who knew that?

"Yeah," Steve says. "Since— since Sharon shot me." It's the last thing he remembers clearly: her face as she knelt over him, as she fired. "I'm guessing those weren't entirely ordinary bullets."

Tony presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and chokes out a wordless sob. "You were _dead_. You died _six months ago_. I _buried you_."

Six months? He's been gone for six months? _And look what it's done to Tony_ , he thinks, but no, he doesn't care, he can't care about him. He can't forgive Tony for what he did. Tony picked accountability over liberty. He hunted down everyone who didn't agree with him. He threw his friends, their friends, in a prison in the Negative Zone. He's probably been running a police state for superheroes. Steve can't just brush it off. He can't smile and shake his hand and offer easy platitudes. 

"Well, I'm still alive," Steve points out, a little more roughly than he has to. "Just unstuck in time."

Tony shakes his head. "No, now you're _stuck_ in time. With me. Sorry."

Steve gives Tony a skeptical look; Tony entirely misses it, because his face is still in his hands. "How do I know I'm not just imagining you?"

"Never figured you for a solipsist," Tony mutters. "You don't know, I guess, but I'm confident I'm not imagining you, because I wished you alive with the Infinity Gauntlet, and I'm sure the power of Infinity gives you exactly what you want. It'd be a pretty lousy Infinity Gauntlet otherwise."

He used the Infinity Gauntlet? To bring Steve here? "There was definitely not an Infinity Gauntlet on Monte Cassino," Steve says, and if Red Skull is listening he's sure there's no harm in telling him that. "Never saw the thing until I joined the Avengers." Maybe that's what they'd been sent to look for? No, it definitely shouldn't have been on Earth then. Thanos hadn't even begun putting it together. Hell, it isn't even on Earth right now, is it? The Gems are scattered.

But maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe this is what Red Skull wants to know.

"This isn't our Earth." Tony looks up and half-smiles; it's not a real smile. "This one had an Infinity Gauntlet."

Steve pushes himself up to sitting. "What do you mean, not our Earth?"

Tony shrugs a little. "The Captain America of this world had a Cosmic Cube and accidentally dragged me here with it, yesterday. That's how I got here. But we're definitely somewhere else in the multiverse."

This doesn't sound like a Red Skull explanation. Skull would definitely not have gone to this much trouble.

It's got to be the truth.

"I'm here?" he asks, and Tony nods. "The Invaders are here?" Tony nods again. Steve tries not to think about seeing Bucky before— before everything happened. He's been seeing him over and over for— months, apparently. But this feels different. This wouldn't just be five hurried minutes of battle. "Then," Steve continues, triumphant, "how are you so goddamn certain it's not our Earth? How do you know it's not just time travel? You've been sitting next to a mountain in Italy for a day. The countryside's not actually that distinctive, and no offense, but you weren't the one who was here before, so how can you be so sure—"

There's a noise outside the tent, and Steve turns his head.

Tony Stark is standing there. Another Tony Stark. He's standing there like he belongs there, wearing a mix of civilian clothes and Army gear with no rank markings, and he's staring, wide-eyed. He looks a little heavier than Tony is, carrying more muscle; he's at the weight Tony ought to be at. There are a few faint scars on his face, and Steve knows that Extremis removed all of Tony's scars. He looks a little older—but again, that could be the artificial youthfulness of Extremis. On the other hand, he looks better off than Tony. This man's face is light, easy. Happy, even. And Tony—well, Tony looks like he's been walking the razor-thin wire between himself and his demons. Again.

He supposes he has to think of the one from this universe as Stark, to keep them straight in his head. Which means that the one from his own universe has to be Tony. He hates that he has to be so close to him in his head. Tony doesn't merit any kind of intimacy from him anymore, even in naming, but Steve is forced to give him it. It smarts.

"Like I was saying," Tony says from next to him, voice shading into sarcasm, "I'm positive this is another Earth. _He's_ from here." He raises his voice to his double. "Can I help you with something, or did you just come to gawk?"

The other Stark blinks a few times. "Just wanted to see how you were doing with your fella." The accent isn't Tony's and the slang _definitely_ isn't Tony's, and Stark is looking at Steve knowingly, like he means something else by the word. Steve bristles hard in a mix of anger and something that, bizarrely, feels a lot like regret, at the idea of being Tony's _fella_. He isn't Tony's _anything_. Stark's gaze goes between Tony and Steve and finally settles on Steve. "Excuse me. I think I misspoke."

"Yeah, I think you did," Steve says, tightly.

He has no idea what could have caused the man to imagine— they're not even _friends_. Not anymore. Luckily, Tony seems to have entirely missed any other implications of the sentence; his face bears the same expression of mild annoyance as it did when Stark started talking.

"Anyway," Stark says, directing the comment to Tony, "Cap's getting a little antsy, as you can probably imagine. Being as you apparently _know him_ , I'm sure you can imagine it very well." His mouth twists. "I'll tell him everyone's awake now, shall I?"

"Give us a couple more minutes," Tony says, with an odd, pleading note in his voice. "He literally just came back _from the dead_. Come on."

Stark shrugs. "Fine by me. I'm not the one of us he's pissed off at."

He turns and wanders off, as casually as he had come.

Tony's been here since yesterday and apparently he's gone and gotten Steve's counterpart mad at him already. Steve wants to laugh. It figures. Tony fucking Stark knows exactly how to push his buttons in any universe.

"Should I ask what you did?"

Tony doesn't meet his eyes. "I... might have lied to him. By omission." His throat works as he swallows. "A lot."

"Oh," Steve says, dryly. "I am absolutely _shocked_. Never thought you had it in you, Director."

It's so easy to hate him now. It's so, so easy. This is what Tony does. This is what Tony has always done. He lies and he smiles and he lies more and he says it's for the greater good, he says this is the way has to be, he says he knows what's best, he says sometimes there have to be sacrifices, and he's _wrong_ and he'll never, ever believe it. Hell, Tony had been lying to him when they met, had lied to him for years, had pretended to be two people.

The memory twists in him like the drag of a knife. He doesn't want to remember Tony as his friend.

Steve should have known that a man who would lie to his face about his own identity would be capable of further, deeper betrayals. A bond between them, broken because Tony cared more about getting his technology out of the hands of the Guardsmen than anything else. A disagreement about whether to murder the Kree Supreme Intelligence, because Tony in his arrogance thought that he had the goddamn right to decide what life was and whether the Supreme Intelligence was part of it. A mission to an AIM base, in the hideous aftermath of Tony ripping the knowledge of his own identity out of Steve's mind, out of the minds of everyone who cared for Tony, and Tony had just looked at him like he was supposed to understand why this was necessary. The Superhuman Registration Act.

Tony had been against the SHRA once, before Stamford. Empty words, Steve supposes. He should never have thought that Tony would be on his side. He should have remembered that, when it really counts, Tony's only out to save his own skin.

There's a ripple of pain and anguish across Tony's face. "Look, St—" he begins, and then he breaks off, like he doesn't think he has the right to use Steve's name, and maybe he doesn't. "We're— we're not friends. I know what I did, and I'm not apologizing for any of it. I can't. I'm not asking to be your friend again, to earn your trust or forgiveness or respect or anything like that, because we're— we're past that. I made my choices. You made yours." He closes his eyes briefly, miserably, like Steve's going to feel sorry for him. "I brought you back to life. I brought you to this world. For whatever it's worth, I didn't mean to do this. And you don't have to like me. I'm not expecting you ever will. But if you want to go home, you have to help me, because I can't do this alone. There were two easy ways to get home, and I lost them both. I can handle the tech end; I can try to build something that will work. But I don't know enough about what's coming. I don't know where we need to be now. I don't know what will keep us safe until I can get the two of us home. This was never my war. This was always yours." He meets Steve's eyes, and his gaze is haunted, begging, pleading. "We have to work together. You don't have to see me ever again once we get home, but I can't get us there without you." He looks away and whispers one last pained admission. "I need you. Please."

He remembers how Tony had looked, at the end of the fight, lying beneath him, surrounded by the shattered pieces of his broken armor. Tony had looked him in the eye and whispered _finish it_ and he almost would have, God, he would have done it. He could have killed him.

It's then that he notices the weapons. Everything that Tony should have been wearing as part of the SHIELD uniform—blaster, pistol, even the boot knife—is piled neatly within Steve's reach. That has to be deliberate.

Tony always had some awful ideas about atonement.

Steve wants to be sick.

In the end he'd let the first-responders pull him off Tony. He hadn't been able to make himself move away. But he hadn't killed him, because he'd finally seen that this was where it had been leading to, in the end, that war meant death.

He'll never be able to forgive Tony. Registration is wrong. But that doesn't mean this is what he wanted. It never was.

Steve lifts his hand, turns it over, gestures at the guns. He watches Tony track him, moving nothing more than his eyes.

"So what's this about, then, huh?" Steve's voice has gone hoarse again, thick with anger. It's the kind of question that ought to be kind, that ought to be gentle. He ought to coax it out of him with soft words. Support him. Be there for him.

He doesn't think he can be that to Tony. Not anymore. He doesn't want to play Tony's little self-loathing games with whatever simulacrum of humanity that Extremis has made Tony's brain into. If Tony's got nothing to hold him up anymore, that's not Steve's fault. That's not his responsibility.

Even as he thinks it, regret once again wells up and washes over him, mixing together with the anger. This shouldn't be where they are. This shouldn't be what happens to them. They used to be friends.

And now they're not.

"I think you know." Tony's looking away again. "It's only fair. Wanted to give you a chance to even the score. Finish the fight. You never got to finish it. I wouldn't fight back this time." His face is frighteningly empty. "It'd be quick."

"If I kill you," Steve points out, through gritted teeth, "and I'll set aside for the moment my opinion about your extremely personally flattering conception that I might want to murder any of my— my _acquaintances_ in cold blood, then I'm stuck here for good, aren't I?"

Tony's expression twists into misery at the precise moment that Steve says _acquaintances_. He can't take it back. It doesn't matter.

"Yeah, well," Tony says. "Heard you always liked the forties best."

"Tony!" Steve snaps, and Tony jumps, wary and wide-eyed, like the hapless subject of a laboratory experiment, waiting to see what it means that Steve has used his actual name. Steve doesn't know what it means. "Take your goddamn guns already. We're both getting out alive."

Tony says nothing, but he leans over and takes the guns. Something that looks a whole lot like one of his armor suitcases is sitting on his other side. He was never actually helpless.

"Fine," Steve says, because Tony is still saying nothing. "What's this about meeting the team?"

"I promised them some answers," Tony says, finally, all inflection gone.

They'll probably still be lies.

Steve pushes himself to his feet and pushes past Tony.

He'd like some answers from Tony too. Some more answers. He did get some, once. He'd just like them to have been different ones.

* * *

When Steve steps outside, he's greeted with a familiar site: the Invaders' field camp, a loose semicircle of tents converging on an empty clearing. He's seen this sight recently, being yanked through time. The Invaders have pulled up logs to sit on, and there are six figures, which is either more or fewer than there should be, but it is, after all, a different Earth.

For all that he's spent six months getting fractured war-torn glimpses of the Invaders—and the entire rest of his life—something about the sight of them nudges at something raw in his chest. Torch and Toro are sitting on the closest log; Namor's on a log by himself, and the biggest log seats three: the other Tony Stark, another Steve Rogers—Steve's brain is a little dizzy at the thought—and Bucky, who's sitting there swinging his legs, hitting his boots on the side of the log.

This is his team, his first team, in the good old days. Namor's allegiances now are complicated, and he thinks Tony was stirring up something with him. Toro is dead. Torch—well, that's another one of those crazy stories that only makes sense to Avengers. And Bucky, well. Steve gave him his memories back, his self back. The Cube did that much. But it didn't give him this, a time before either of them had imagined that what the Soviets did to him was even possible. They were innocent. They were all innocent.

It doesn't have to happen. He could tell them the future. He could change it, with a word.

It probably never even occurred to Tony. Tony probably thinks it has to be this way. Tony wants to play God. Tony always knows what's right.

"Hey, Cap," Bucky calls out, "it's the other you!"

The other Stark is waving him to a seat; there's an empty log, and he supposes that's for him and Tony. He's aware of Tony standing just behind him, a familiar if not entirely welcome presence. Even now, now that they should be nothing to each other, Tony has his back. Steve supposes that old habits are hard to break. 

Steve slides onto the log and he doesn't have to turn to know that Tony is sitting next to him, which is fine by him because he really doesn't want to look at Tony. 

"So," Steve's counterpart begins. He's sitting back and giving him a long speculative look. He's young. The cowl does a good job of hiding his age, of course, but Steve knows. He hardly remembers being this young. Oh, he's just spent six months occupying his own earlier selves, but he didn't exactly have to look himself in the face then. "I have to say, you're in remarkably good shape for your age. How old is that, exactly?"

Steve opens his mouth to give the actual answer, to explain that even though he's technically eighty-seven—or maybe eighty-eight now, because he's not sure if he's missed his birthday—he's experientially only thirty-five, so he does in fact look his age.

Next to him, Tony tenses. He can feel it without looking directly at him; he can hear the soft, sharp inhalation that would be inaudible to anyone except him: out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tony sit up infinitesimally straighter.

This is a loaded question. This is where the truth starts. And Tony wants him to lie about it to these people, to his other self. Tony doesn't want them to know what happened to him. Tony wants to keep lying.

"Please."

The single word is breathed too quietly for anyone but Steve to hear, and he knows Tony knows it.

"I'm eighty-seven," Steve says. It wasn't what he meant to say, he thinks, and he doesn't quite realize he's done it at all until Tony exhales softly next to him and he realizes he's just played right into Tony's goddamn hands. Why in the world did he do that? 

"The serum is really something, huh?" Rogers asks, smiling a little in admiration; he's clearly trying to picture himself at that age. It's too late to take the lie back.

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "It's had a fair number of... unexpected benefits, you could say."

Boy, could you ever.

"So you two work together?" Rogers asks. "Your friend the director was... less informative than he could be on that particular point."

And yet Tony apparently had no problem telling them he was the director of SHIELD. Huh.

"We used to work together, yes," Steve says. His voice is smooth, cool. Impersonal. He can do this.

Next to him, Tony takes a shaking breath. Tony has no right to be sorry. Tony has no right to be sad. Tony made this goddamn war between them.

"You were... superheroes?" Rogers says the word questioningly, like the very concept of it is almost unfamiliar, and that can't be right.

"St—" Tony murmurs, and he catches himself, like he's just now remembering they're not friends. "They have no superheroes here. No one in the world has powers except you, as far as I can tell. Other you, I mean. Everyone else—they're all baseline human."

"Now that's not true," Stark says, indignantly, because Tony was loud enough now to be overheard. "There are plenty of strange things in the world, and I've seen a lot of them. None of us can fly or catch fire or whatever it is you said, but there's that fella in Queens who can make spiderwebs with his hands. That's not quite normal in my book."

Christ. A universe where the only superheroes are him and Peter Parker. Apparently Peter's alive in the forties here. He hopes Peter's okay on his own Earth. He can't think right now about what Tony did to him. Not and get through this conversation, anyway.

"And there was that guy with the big head, from Marvels," Rogers adds. He gestures at Tony. "You saw him. _And_ the alien."

"There are _aliens_?" Toro asks.

Uh-oh. _The alien?_

Steve turns and levels a glare at Tony. "You need to debrief me."

"Okay," Tony says, placidly, evenly, like none of this is having any kind of impact on him. "You want everything for the past six months, or just everything since yesterday?" He says it like he might even tell the truth, which is rich. He just got Steve to keep lying for him.

"I—"

"Let me start," Rogers offers. "On the immediately pertinent information, anyway." Steve likes that his counterpart is, at least, no nonsense. Rogers clears his throat. "We were sent to do reconnaissance on the monastery at Monte Cassino slightly over a week ago. We found the Cosmic Cube."

Steve nods. "In my universe, we were sent here as well, but there was nothing. Also... you're missing a few of the people who were here."

Tony nudges him gently. Tony's _touching_ him. Steve's spine prickles in something that feels like it should be anger, but there's no heat behind it. "I already asked," Tony murmurs again. "Union Jack and Spitfire aren't Invaders. No idea why."

"So I sent for Agent Stark here to come investigate." Rogers jerks a thumb at Stark, sitting next to him. "He's one of General Fury's civilian consultants. And then... Hydra came to steal the Cube back, and it... got used."

Steve blinks. _General Fury_ 's not the weirdest part, but— "Hydra's here? In the war?"

"Hydra, AIM, you name it," Tony says, cutting in. "As far as I can tell, the forties here consist of everyone you've ever heard of, then and now." He snorts a little, a dry laugh. "It's super-fun." His voice is high and sarcastic. "Anyway, there I was, Monday morning, getting suited up for a field mission—"

"Hey," Stark says. "While we're on the topic, can I ask what you're the director of?"

Maybe Tony had been less informative than Steve had thought.

"Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate," Tony says, like he's practiced rattling it off. He probably has. "SHIELD, for short. We're an intelligence agency, specializing in... hmm. Counterterrorism as well as superhuman and extraterrestrial threats, you could say. The original purpose was to fight Hydra. It's my least favorite job I was ever blackmailed into doing." He grimaces.

Steve starts in surprise. "You were—"

"What, you thought I _wanted it_?" Tony spits out the question. "Ha. No. Kooning had... well, he had something on me, let's say, and also there was no way I was trusting him and his cronies to—" He breaks off. "This isn't relevant." He sighs. "But it's less fun than being Secretary of Defense, even."

The Invaders are staring blankly, which Steve expects, but Tony clearly doesn't.

"Secretary of War," Steve translates, for their benefit, and it feels like this entire situation is backwards.

"Oh." Stark at least looks impressed.

"Anyway." Tony sighs. "So there was a portal, and then I was here, and the Hydra agent with the Cube teleported away, and I was getting weird readings, cosmic-level readings, from the monastery—"

"Yeah," Rogers says. "About that. Were you planning on explaining exactly how you did that?"

"I have sensors in the armor," Tony says, flatly.

"You weren't _wearing_ the armor."

"He can talk to machines," Steve volunteers, because he knows the goddamn answer to that one. "In his head."

Now everyone's staring at Tony.

"It's a relatively recent personal development," Tony says, on a sigh. He isn't looking at Steve, which is once again just fine by Steve. "I was one of the test subjects of a project called Extremis. I wasn't actually meant to be. It was... well, it was yet another super-soldier project." He pauses; Rogers is staring at him in disbelief. "Come on, you can't honestly think they were happy stopping with making just one of you, Captain?"

Even now, Steve knows, assuming this universe is like his own, they're probably still working on more serum trials, the ones he never knew about then. He thinks of what happened to Isaiah Bradley, and he's sick inside. And that doesn't even take into account the people who'd tried to be Captain America after him, like the unfortunate William Burnside.

He wonders if there's another Captain America now.

"Anyway," Tony says, "the intended outcomes by the people working on Extremis were the usual set of super-soldier abilities: enhanced strength, better reflexes, healing factor, et cetera. I was the second test subject, because the first test subject had thrown a car on me and I was going to die if I didn't have a healing factor." He pauses and licks his lips. He never said that before, Steve thinks, half-stunned. He never told them why he'd done it. Not like that. "I was able to modify what I got, and I swapped strength for technopathy. Kept the healing factor, though. Then I killed the first test subject. He was still trying to kill me." He laughs another awful dry laugh. "It really wasn't one of my better days. Any other questions?"

It's a lie, it's a lie too, Steve knows, because Tony absolutely would have still done it, would have gone and gotten Extremis no matter what. It shouldn't change anything to know that Tony had been dying—of course Tony was dying, of course he's always dying of something. But Tony had never told him.

"The readings," Steve prompts.

"The readings," Tony says. "As it turns out, I was reading both a Cosmic Cube _and_ the Infinity Gauntlet. Figured this was my big chance to get home. It turned out that MODOK was there too. And your old buddy, the Sensational Hydra."

Oh no. This was why Rogers had mentioned an alien. "There are _Skrulls_ working for Hydra here?"

" _One_ Skrull," Tony says, offended, like that makes it any better. "I did check, when I had the Gauntlet. Pretty sure it was just him. He's gone now. I don't think the Skrulls here are planning anything serious. He's a little unstable, if you remember."

"Yeah," Steve says. "I remember. When we all came back from the dead he made the whole world love me so he could tie me up in a closet and impersonate me on national television to convince the world Skrulls were invading."

Rogers looks stunned. "How many times have you _died_?"

"What's television?" Bucky asks.

Next to him, Tony laughs softly. "You've got your priorities in order."

"A lot of times." Steve can feel himself scowling. "And it's like having a radio set that shows films in your home."

"It's under development," Stark assures him, and Tony and Bucky both look pleased.

Then it occurs to him: there's one big question Tony hasn't answered.

"Wait," Steve says. "If you had the Gauntlet, and you could have gone home at any time, how did I get here? Why am I here?"

"Well," Tony says, in that false-bright tone that means he's ignoring everything everyone says, "this has been a great conversation. We should do it again sometime."

Anger courses through Steve's blood. "No," he grits out, "we should finish it now."

Tony's eyes are haunted, his face terrifyingly bleak. He doesn't speak.

"Okay, okay." It's Stark who holds up a hand. "I think we've exhausted all useful information about the past two days."

" _Someone_ —" Rogers' eyes fall on Tony— "promised he'd answer any of my questions."

Tony's slumped in on himself, eyes unfocused. It's not the look he gets with Extremis. It's the look he gets when he's trying to hide from himself, when something in his mind is coming up sharp-edged and bleeding. _Leave him alone_ , Steve wants to say, wishing he had his shield, and he can't figure out how he can feel burning rage looking at Tony's face and simultaneously want to walk into the line of fire for him.

He can't make himself say anything.

"You want to know about your fucking war?" Tony rasps. "I'll tell you about your fucking war. There are going to be several climactic battles, you bet, and you can have all the names and dates you want but it's not going to change the number of lives lost, is it? I'm sure Captain America here will be happy to tell you how the invasion of Normandy goes. It all ends a year and a half from now. Hitler dies in April 1945. He almost commits suicide. But he's interrupted." He laughs like he's choking. "The Human Torch kills him."

"Me?" Torch's voice is utter shock.

"Mmm-hmm." Tony's still not looking up. "He burns. Hope you enjoy your Medal of Honor." He sighs. "Germany surrenders in May. Japan surrenders in August, after the United States bombs them with... experimental weaponry. Nuclear weaponry. They learn how to split the atom. It's devastating. Hundreds of thousands of casualties." He looks up and his face is gray; his mouth is a hard, set line. "So, tell me, do you _feel better now_? Do you think you can _save people_? Does knowing the future make you _happy_?"

There's dead silence.

Tony stands up and walks away.

No one says anything as he goes.

He's heading back toward the tent, and after a couple of minutes, Steve is entirely unsurprised to see Tony emerge armored up, red and gold in the rapidly-dimming light. Tony stares at him briefly, in silence; the faceplate is impassive metal. The boot jets glow, and he's in the air, zooming away.

"He'll be back," Steve says, because he knows Tony. "He just needs to fly around a bit. Clear his head. He's good; they won't be tracking him." He knows they're in occupied territory.

Rogers looks skeptical and somehow, oddly, afraid. "You said he was your friend?"

"Used to be," Steve says. "Not so much anymore."

* * *

The sun's gone down by the time Tony comes back. Steve's gone out to stand watch, because he might as well be useful, and after six months of being unstuck in time, he finds the idea of peace and quiet appealing. It's better than watching the way Torch is looking at him after Tony's little bombshell. He watches Tony land in the middle of the camp, a familiar pattern of glowing repulsors in the dark.

He waits to see if Tony will come talk to him.

Branches crackle behind him.

"Tony," he says, because who else would it be?

"Not the one you wanted," Tony's voice says, but it's the wrong accent again, wrong for Tony. Mid-Atlantic, like rich men and stars of the silver screen. A voice Steve could have heard on the radio as a kid.

He turns, and Stark's standing there, hands balled in the pockets of a muddy overcoat, grinning the kind of rakish grin, somehow self-conscious, that Steve used to see on Tony's face all the time. When they were young. When they were friends. Something in Steve's chest goes warm and fuzzy at the memory, and then twists into sadness.

Not the one he wanted, indeed. He wants the Tony who was his friend. Who _trusted_ him. That man is gone.

"Did he send you?" Steve asks.

Stark lifts his gloved hands from his pockets, palms up. It's the way anyone who isn't Tony would show that they're unarmed, but with Tony the gesture is anything but safe, and the similarity between the two men splinters and then collides in on itself again as Stark frowns, familiar lines creasing between his eyebrows.

"Is everyone this suspicious where you come from?" Stark counters.

Steve shrugs. "You get practice anticipating him. Tony's never very straightforward."

"Well," Stark says, and a smile curls about his lips. "Neither am I, I suppose."

That's... exactly the sort of non-answer he'd expect from Tony Stark.

"So what's your story?" Steve wonders. _Civilian consultant_ covers a lot of ground. "Scientist? Engineer?"

His face lights up. "Adventurer. And Fury's expert on bizarre artifacts. Hence the reason I'm here. Engineer, too, if you like." He shrugs. "It's paid the bills a time or two. I do have my own armored suit, though not as nice as your... associate's. But mostly adventuring. I was the darling of the pulp magazines, before the war."

That sounds like... well, that sounds like a job Tony would love.

"But you're not in the Army?"

Stark taps his chest. "4-F, officially. Heart problems. Still wanted to help out, so here I am."

Yeah, Steve understands that impulse, all right. 

Stark flashes another grin—it's Tony's _charming_ grin—and it's doubly strange because he's seen that look on Tony's face before, but almost never directed at him. Tony saves his charm for strangers, for people he needs to impress, and it's been a long time since they've been strangers, and even then they were Avengers. The team had never been much for facades. Except for the secret identities, of course. Steve wonders if Tony would have tried to charm him early on if he'd spent more time around him with the mask off.

"You'd probably like the magazines," Stark offers, and the grin is more real this time. "You should ask Bucky; I think he's got some copies of Marvels on him."

"I probably would like them," Steve agrees. "Used to love things like that when I was a kid. Adventure stories."

Stark laughs. "Yeah," he says, still smiling. "So I hear." Steve guesses he and his counterpart have a lot in common.

He _likes_ this man, Steve thinks, and he hates himself for thinking it. How can he like Tony, any Tony, at all? Tony imprisoned his friends, people whose only goddamn crime had been _disagreeing with Tony_ , and how can Steve forget about that for even one second? How the hell is he not immune to Tony Stark's goddamn smile?

"Was there something in particular you needed from me?" Steve asks.

"Not so much." Stark's looking at him with that familiar calculating look of Tony's, the benign one, the one where he's trying to get all the pieces to fit together. "I just— well, in my world I consider you a friend, I suppose, and I was curious about how things turned out where you're from."

"How they turned out badly, you mean."

Steve knows the words are blunt, too blunt—that's always been one of his failings—but Stark just nods. "Yeah," he says. "That. In this world... well, call me selfish, but I'd really like if that never happened."

Him and Steve both.

"It won't happen here," Steve tells him. "Not like this, not for the same reasons. It couldn't."

Stark raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"It has to do with superheroes," Steve begins. "Which you have none of, so it won't— it won't come up. There was an incident on my Earth, recently, where a group of superheroes—not much older than kids themselves, really—engaged a group of supervillains. Near a school in Connecticut. They weren't prepared for what they were facing, and the situation got out of control, fast. There were—" he swallows hard— "there were civilian casualties. A lot of civilian casualties. Children."

"Christ." The blasphemy is succinct.

"So people wanted this never to happen again. I'm not— I'm not saying it's not a laudable goal, but the way they went about it— they passed the Superhuman Registration Act. Thousands of people, private citizens, people who have never done anything wrong in their lives—they have to give up their names to the government. They have to register, and now there's this list of names that God knows who has access to, and I can come up with a list as long as my arm of people who would kill for that list. And then kill everyone on it."

"Mmm." Stark looks thoughtful. "You were against this, I'm guessing?"

Steve nods. "And Tony was for it."

"I take it," Stark says, "that this was more than just some theoretical political argument."

Oh, if only. "What Tony didn't tell you about his job is that he's also in charge of enforcing Registration," Steve says. "Which includes finding and imprisoning superheroes who refuse to register. Technically I committed treason. We— we fought. We fought in the streets." His mouth is dry. "I was about to kill him, literally about to kill him, and then I— I couldn't— I surrendered. And then I was shot on the way to my arraignment. Not by him," he hastens to add. "And then I was here."

Stark is silent for a while.

"You were friends before this?" he asks.

Steve nods. "He was... he's been one of my best friends. We've disagreed before, but it's— it's never been like this."

There's another long, contemplative silence.

"You want me to tell you he's wrong," Stark says, quietly. "You want me to tell you he's wrong and you're right and give you another fact to use as ammunition. I can't do that. But I can tell you that it sounds like a lousy situation, any way you look at it. And whatever he did, he was making the best of a bad situation the only way he saw how. Because that's what I'd do, if it were me. That's all anyone can do."

"That's what he says he's doing," Steve says, and goddammit, Stark doesn't understand, and of course he's going to take Tony's side, but there were lines here and Tony crossed them.

Stark's hands are up again, and belatedly Steve realized he's raised his voice.

"Christ, but you're terrifying when you're mad, aren't you?" he murmurs. Then he sighs. "You know I'm not the one you want to talk to."

"I don't want to talk to him," Steve snaps.

"I'm not going to make you." Stark shrugs. "Your funeral."

He already had one of those, he thinks. He wonders if it was nice. He wonders if Tony even went. Probably not. It's not like Tony cares, anymore.

Stark turns and heads off toward the camp without so much as a goodbye. It seems Steve's good at getting Tony Stark's dander up in any universe.

* * *

He's only alone for a few minutes, and then there's another set of footsteps.

There's absolutely no one else it can be this time.

"Did you have a good flight?" Steve asks, without turning around.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tony. He's changed back into his SHIELD uniform, and Steve can only pick out the parts that aren't black. Tony is pale skin, white boots and gloves, white equipment harness, in the shadows of the night.

Tony shrugs. "Figured a recon pattern was worth flying. Monte Cassino's still a bit of a smoking wreck. I might have blown a few holes in it on the way in. And out. I was in a hurry."

"On our Earth, the Allies aren't supposed to take it out for a couple months, you know," Steve says, even though it's obvious now how Tony must feel about messing with the time period. Tony practically circled V-E Day on the calendar for the Invaders. But Tony didn't want him to tell them about the ice, and Steve still doesn't know what to make of that.

Tony shrugs like he didn't know and doesn't think it matters. "Pretty sure that on our Earth it wasn't hosting Skrull-built ground-to-air plasma weaponry, either," Tony says. "That was an unpleasant discovery."

Well, that's a surprise, indeed. "That's all gone, then?"

"No," Tony says, a sarcastic drawl, "I thought I'd leave the Nazis some Skrull plasma guns for kicks. Yes, of course it's all gone. What the hell do you think I did?"

"I don't know," Steve says, and somehow he's throwing his hands up, at the end of his rope already. There's nothing left of him to deal with Tony; Tony's burned through all his goodwill just by standing there. "I don't know what you did! I don't even know you anymore." Tony's not even... not even _human_.

Tony aligns himself the same way Steve's facing, staring out at the darkness. "You know my hearing's better than normal now?"

He's pretty sure Tony can hear anything he wants. The ultimate invasion of privacy. "Yeah, and?" He wonders why Tony's bringing it up. Then he realizes Tony must have heard every word he said to Tony's counterpart. He flushes, anger and rage and humiliation, and he's barely aware of feeling his fingers clenched into fists as he turns toward Tony.

But, unlike Stark, Tony's not scared of him—or if he is, he'll never admit it. Tony just tilts his chin up a little, placidly, acknowledging the intrusion. "I thought maybe I could tell you a little about Registration. Allay your fears."

"I'm not _afraid_ ," Steve grits out, "and if you think I want to hear about how you're lording it over whichever of my friends are still alive—"

Tony grimaces in something that looks like pain, but Steve can't be hurting him, because that would mean Tony would have to care about what he thinks, and he's done a goddamn wonderful job of demonstrating he doesn't and never will again.

"I wanted to tell you about the Registration database," Tony says, quietly. "Since you sounded concerned about its security. I do understand, you know," and that's the biggest goddamn lie Tony's ever told. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to. But I can't trust anyone else with it. I can't."

"So you're keeping an eye on the database," Steve says. "So, what, while you're stranded here, anyone could be hacking into it as we speak—"

Tony laughs, harsh and raw. "Not so much. Where do you think the database _is_?"

He taps his temple with one gloved finger. There's an awful, fatalistic smile on his face.

Steve stares. This really ought to surprise him less than it does, he thinks, numbly. Tony's always had a tendency to want to keep his secrets close. Now the files don't even have to leave his head.

"That's supposed to, what, reassure me?" Steve snaps. "Last I heard, Ho Yinsen's son was able to hack into your brain and make you kill everyone on his hit list. How's your new, improved brain working out for you? How many people were on that airliner you blew up, Tony?"

Tony goes alarmingly pale, but he recovers fast, stepping in, bracing himself like he's expecting Steve to throw a punch. "I'm doing what's necessary," he snarls. "I know you can't see it, but I'm— I'm _protecting_ people. You have no idea what I'm— I tell you, and I tell you, and you can't seem to see what's at stake—"

"I know you're _hunting down my friends_!" Steve yells back. "People who have done nothing wrong, people who only want to help people, to be superheroes the way we've been for years until you suddenly decided there was a problem with that. This isn't _protection_. You built a goddamn prison in the Negative Zone. You think Speedball's _happy_ that it was his friend Tony Stark who threw him in jail and not some nameless government agent? You think all of your _friends_ are sitting there, thinking, _gosh, I'm glad Tony Stark cares so much about me?_ Say, what does Peter think about you now, Director? _"_

Teeth bared, Tony's in his face. "Which of us had fucking _Frank Castle_ on his side, huh? I might have built a prison but at least I didn't hire the goddamn Punisher!"

"I didn't _hire_ him—" Steve begins.

"You didn't exactly say no," Tony says, taunting, like he's playing a game he can win with words, with cleverness, with sharp retorts, and God, Steve just wants to wipe the smirk off his face.

"You _cloned Thor_ and you want to talk about which of us came off worse?"

Someone yells, and it's not Tony. It's Steve's own voice.

"Hey!" Rogers snaps out. He's maybe twenty feet away, leaning against a tree, shield on his arm. "I don't know if it's somehow escaped your notice, gentlemen, but there's a war on. Keep it down."

Getting a dressing-down from his younger self is both strange and humiliating.

Tony actually rolls his eyes. "There's no one but us in shouting distance. I checked."

"Keep it down," Rogers repeats. "The rest of us would also like some sleep."

He slides the shield onto his back and walks off in the direction of the camp.

Tony snorts in derision. "Captain America is disappointed in Captain America. This is a new low, isn't it?"

"Shut _up_ ," Steve says, because he has really had enough. Couldn't he have come back to life somewhere nice? Maybe with his actual friends?

Tony studies him in the moonlight for long seconds.

"I came to you with my hand extended," Tony says, very quietly. He bites his lip. "I wanted to talk. You could have stopped this. We could have come to an agreement. None of this had to happen. And you reached for my hand, and you stuck an EMP in my palm, and then you tried to kill me. So don't you _dare_ say this is all on me. Don't you fucking put that on me. I didn't do this alone."

"No," Steve says, "but you sure tried your best, didn't you, Director?"

Tony looks at him like there's something else he wants to say, something different, but he can't figure out how to say it.

"I didn't want this," he says. "I know you'll never believe me, but I didn't." He sighs. "Never mind. I'm off to bed."

And then he's gone.

Steve tries to tell himself that he doesn't miss him.

* * *

"You have got to be kidding me," Steve says.

Unimpressed, Rogers glares at him; Steve can just barely make out his face in the darkness. "Do you see any other spare tents here? Do you really want me to rearrange everyone else because you can't behave yourself?"

Steve has never before wanted to punch himself in the face, but there's a first time for everything.

"I could bunk with Bucky," he tries, because he spent almost five years sharing tents with Bucky and he's sure that would be a hell of a lot more pleasant than the alternative, "and Tony with Namor—"

"Namor declined," Rogers informs him, and Steve just bets he did. "So did your Tony."

He's definitely not _his_ Tony.

"Fine," Steve says, tightly.

He just wants some sleep. He only needs a few hours anyway. He can be civil to Tony for that long. Probably. They can't actually get into a fight while they're sleeping.

When he trudges into the equipment tent, Tony's got his briefcase open and the armor inside glowing faintly, providing just enough light to see by. It looks more than a little eerie, lit up and in pieces, but Steve supposes that it doesn't bother Tony.

One of the bedrolls looks thicker than the other, and Tony's sitting fully-dressed on the thin one, legs drawn up, chin propped on his knees. "So I hear we're tentmates for the foreseeable future," he says, in a completely neutral tone that could mean anything.

"So I hear," Steve agrees.

"You know," Tony says, "if you object that much, you can always sleep outside."

Why the hell should he be the one to go? "No," Steve says, because there's no way he's going to let Tony win. "I'll be fine. Thank you." He knows his voice sounds nowhere near courteous.

"Just checking." Tony's voice is dry.

"It could be worse." Steve contemplates this. "At least we're not tied together naked again."

Tony drops a hand to one of the pouches on his belt. "I think I've got some zip ties on me." He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were into that kind of thing, though. Kinky. My safeword is 'safeword,' by the way."

"Tony."

Tony's actually got one of the pouches open. "Of course," he says, "they're hardly rated for super-soldier strength, which, really, now that I think about it, is an awfully big design flaw—"

" _Tony_ ," Steve repeats, because he's really not in the mood to continue with this joke.

The thing Tony's holding out isn't a zip tie. It's a foil-wrapped protein bar. "Here."

"Go on," Tony says. "High-calorie field rations, courtesy of SHIELD. They're new. I haven't tried this flavor yet, but your duplicate there seemed to like them just fine."

He almost can't process _Tony is being nice to me_. But this is what Tony does. He gives people things. Food. Homes. It's how he apologizes. It's how he shows he cares.

Tony can't possibly care about him.

"You're really," Steve begins, and then he stops, because he has no idea what he wants to say. It's hard to be angry in the face of Tony's generosity, and he can't decide if he should feel like an asshole for still being angry, or angrier at the idea that Tony knows what he's doing to him and is consciously using that.

Tony's smile is coaxing. "Come on," he murmurs. "I'm not going to let you starve."

Their gloved fingers brush when Steve takes the bar.

"Not bad," he pronounces, after a bite. He's not sure what it's supposed to be—it's too dark to read the label—but it is at least edible.

Tony smiles again. "Good."

He realizes belatedly that he has been hungry, as he polishes off the bar in a few bites. "Thank you."

Tony pats the bedroll next to him, and Steve sits down, pulling the blankets back and— "Tony?" he asks. "There are two blankets here."

When he looks over, he realizes why it looked so odd; Tony's sitting on a bare tarp, more or less. He's given Steve all the blankets.

"I can adjust my metabolism on the fly." Tony's voice is awkward, as if he hates to bring that up. "Change my circulation. I don't even need to be awake to do it. And the SHIELD uniforms are surprisingly good insulators. I'll be fine."

Affection and ire tangle together, because Tony knows him and Tony's using it and dammit, he'll be fine. He doesn't need to be coddled. He shoves back the memory of the ice, even more viscerally real after his recent experiences of his past.

"Tony—"

"You think I don't know how much you hate the cold?" Tony asks, and goddammit, he sounds _gentle_ and Steve hates how much everything in him craves that.

Steve clenches his jaw. "I can take it."

"You shouldn't have to," Tony says, quietly.

Tony's hand is on his wrist, white gloves against red. He imagines he can feel the heat of it, through the leather; it's such an odd thing to imagine, and he isn't sure whether he wants to shove the thought away, the thought and Tony's hand.

He doesn't move.

"Don't think this changes anything," he says, and he finally drops Tony's hand, lies back, and pulls the blankets over himself.

Next to him Tony lies down, curling up, facing him. His eyes are luminous in the faint light from the armor, the light that is even now dimming; Tony's turning it down.

"Go on and hate me," Tony says. His voice is hoarse. "As long as you're alive, you can hate me as much as you like."

Steve stares at the canvas above him and exhales hard. He's warm under the blankets. It's hardly cold at all.

"I've been traveling through my own past," he whispers. He doesn't know why he's telling Tony this. It's easier to talk to Tony here in the dark, when he can't see him. "I was a passenger in my own body. I was with my body in the ice. Dozens of times, maybe." He remembers he used to tell Tony about his nightmares. They used to talk about this, when he couldn't sleep. Late nights in the mansion and hot cocoa. "When it happened, when it was really happening, I wasn't aware of it. But this— this was different."

"God, Steve." Tony just sounds broken.

"I was conscious," he says. "I was in the ice, and I couldn't move, but I could see everything. I could see Namor throwing the iceberg away and not looking up. I could see the ocean around me, and I knew—" he stutters, throat suddenly tight— "I knew I was alone and no one was coming and I couldn't die but no one was ever coming." He takes a breath. "It was so cold."

Tony's hand slides over the lumpy blankets and squeezes his, with layers of fabric between him. Then he moves his hand away. Steve has the odd thought that maybe Tony should put his hand back, but then it fades.

Tony's quiet for a while.

"It was because I missed you," he says, finally, like he's answering some question of Steve's.

"What?"

"Why you're here." He can hear Tony swallowing. "You asked, earlier. I had the Infinity Gauntlet, and I intended to make a portal home, but the Sensational Hydra threw a fracturing Cosmic Cube at me and I had half a second before the Gauntlet broke to make a wish. I didn't know I'd wished for anything. If you'd asked me I would have sworn I'd have wanted to wish for a portal, but then the dust cleared and the Gauntlet was gone and there you were." He takes a ragged, wet breath. He sounds so vulnerable, like this. "It gave me what I wanted most, I suppose."

Steve can't even think of what to say. Tony missed him so much that seeing him again would be his deepest unconscious wish? Even now? Even after all this?

"That was me?"

"Yeah, Steve." Tony sighs. Steve doesn't know if Tony's noticed he's used his name. Tony's been using his name. "That was you."

Steve ponders this. "You rescued me from the ice, you know. Again."

Tony chuckles. He wonders if Tony's smiling. "Glad to help." His voice is slow, slurred, tired.

It doesn't seem fair that the thought of Tony being happy, of Tony doing all these things for him, should be what makes him feel that warm glow, like they're friends and everything's right. It's like half of him wants to forget about the argument, when he knows full well that they have profound philosophical disagreements that can't be fixed with a blanket and a ration bar.

It used to be simple. They used to apologize. That won't be enough to fix this, and he knows Tony won't apologize.

He tries to tell himself that he doesn't like lying here at Tony's side. That he doesn't like knowing that Tony still has his back.

"Night, Tony," he says, quietly.

"Night, Steve," Tony mumbles, half-asleep.

As he finally drifts off, Steve thinks again about Tony holding his hand. Something about the thought is a comfort.

* * *

In the morning, he's awake before Tony; thanks to the serum, he's always been the first one up, no matter what team he's been on. Outside the tent, he can hear what sounds like one other person moving around, and Steve suspects it's his counterpart. There's no reason to think the serum won't have had the same effect on him, after all.

There's enough light to see by, and he can easily pick out Tony's sleeping profile, next to him. It's not an unfamiliar sight; he's spent years seeing Tony passed out on various chairs and couches around the mansion and tower. It used to be mysterious to him, back when he hadn't known that Tony was Iron Man; Steve would hit the showers after the team debriefing, come back, and find Tony solidly asleep on the nearest soft surface, covered in what were at the time inexplicable scrapes and bruises.

Waking up next to Tony, though, that's a little less familiar. Steve tamps down on the strange, half-formed longing in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that tries to unfold. He doesn't want to think about liking Tony. They have so much between them now. But looking at him, he can almost pretend that none of it ever happened. Almost, because Tony's face is etched with graven lines of worry and sadness, and he never looked like that when they were young.

He shouldn't want to pretend. He shouldn't want to take it all back. He can't take it back. Tony's still running Registration and Steve still committed sedition and treason. Going home will mean seeing the inside of a jail cell for the rest of his life—he suspects they won't actually call for the death penalty—but it's the right thing to do. This is where their choices have left them.

Tony shifts in his sleep, and now he's on his side, facing Steve. His hair's getting long, Steve notes absently; it always starts to curl as it grows out, and one dark lock lies on his forehead. Steve resists the impulse to push it back off of Tony's face, both because touching sleeping Avengers tends to bring out the more violent of their hair-trigger reflexes, and also because there is no earthly reason he should want to touch Tony.

Steve lets out a frustrated sigh. It's because Tony was being nice to him, he knows; it's made everything confusing. It's Tony's fault, like so much else. Hating him, if not what he wanted, was at least simple. This isn't simple.

He doesn't understand this.

Between one breath and the next, Tony's eyes open. He's awake.

Tony studies him quietly, attentively. It feels rare and somehow precious to be the object of Tony's scrutiny, Tony who is so often wrapped up in his own mind. He always was, even before Extremis. He's not quite smiling, but there's a lightness to his face, something that wasn't there yesterday and hasn't been there for a while. Maybe not since before the SHRA.

The morning feels full of possibility. He remembers another morning with Tony, not so long ago, standing on the helicarrier as dawn broke over New York in a brilliant orange wash of sunlight and new beginnings, telling Tony that fate had brought them a new team of Avengers, for them to run together. Together, like they always should have been. They were always best together.

How did it all go wrong?

They'd only wanted to help people. It should have been good. It had been good—God, it had been the _best_. And then it wasn't.

He wants to ask Tony if he's happy, but he thinks he's lost the right to.

"You know," Tony says, like they've been talking, like they're friends, "I was just thinking about how I haven't had a vacation in ages. Well," he amends, "I was in Madripoor a month ago, but that was only an undercover vacation." Now he's actually smiling. "I imagine that real vacations don't actually involve punching Madame Hydra in the face. I bet Madripoor's nice if you go there and never have to fight anyone. I can only speculate as to what that must be like."

"Tony," Steve says, disbelieving and at the same time annoyed that he's been lured into— into conversation. "You're in the middle of a warzone on an alternate Earth and you can't go home. This is not a vacation."

Tony shrugs and then folds his hands behind his head, rolling onto his back. "I have some ideas for getting home. And it might be a warzone, but no one's actively shooting at me. Two weeks ago I found out the Mandarin was alive and that he'd weaponized airborne Extremis. I had to cut off my foot to access Extremis to stop him. This is positively peaceful in comparison."

Horrified, Steve looks down the length of Tony's body. Oh God. Tony slept in his boots, but maybe underneath—

"It healed," Tony says, nonchalantly, like he has no clue what about this could be alarming. "Nothing to freak out about. I have a healing factor these days. And it wasn't even my whole foot. Really, now."

"I have a healing factor too," Steve retorts, "but I don't go _cutting off my limbs_ like a goddamn starfish—"

His chest is tight in annoyance and concern, and he realizes it's the way he always feels when Tony pulls one of these goddamn stunts, and he realizes that he cares, he's always cared, and he can't stop caring about him just because he's wrong about Registration—

Steve snaps his mouth shut.

"Anyway," Steve says. "If you want to get up and fill everyone else in on your plan for getting us home, I'd appreciate it. And there's probably coffee."

Tony does actually smile when Steve says _coffee_.

Well, he's always known Tony's weaknesses.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/35006/35006_original.png)

* * *

There is indeed coffee.

Tony heads for the K-rations like he's locked on with radar, which he might _actually_ be. With an incoherent mumble, he steals the coffee packets out of one of the ration boxes—Rogers glares at him—and is halfway through his second cup and looking marginally more awake by the time the rest of the Invaders get up.

"He really needs coffee," Steve says, and then he wonders after he says it why he's defending Tony, even though it's true.

The team breakfasts in relative silence, with the usual grousing about the rations a little more muted than usual. Steve watches Tony try not to make a face at the canned ham and eggs. He skips the biscuits, and Steve shrugs and eats them for him, because _he_ 's hungry, at least.

"You're only carrying K-rations?" he asks Rogers, as Tony smirks at the anti-VD propaganda on the matchbook that falls out of the ration box.

Rogers nods. "We're carrying a lot of extra equipment, and we had to lose the weight somehow."

"Well, hopefully we won't eat up everything you've got," Steve says, with a pointed glare at Tony, who has now charmed both Bucky and Toro out of their coffee packets in exchange for the smokes from the ration he stole. "You're giving them the _cigarettes_ , Tony?" He knows they all used to smoke—well, mostly not him—but they hadn't been worried about carcinogens at the time and also he's pretty sure his world's Torch and Toro have inhaled worse, what with the constant fire. But he sure wouldn't encourage it now.

"Lung cancer's the least of their worries," Tony says, and everyone else is looking at them like they're not even speaking English.

"No one smokes in the future," Steve tells the Invaders, but the glances he gets in return are skeptical.

It is deeply, deeply strange being the one from the future in this scenario.

"Whatever you say, Cap," Bucky says, cheerfully, cigarettes in one hand and cereal bar in the other. "Other Cap. Whichever."

God. Bucky. _I could save him_ , Steve thinks. _He doesn't have to fall_. He could blurt it out right now, he could tell everyone, but he's protecting Tony, he's doing what Tony asked, and the worst thing about it is that he doesn't even know why. But it seemed like the most natural thing to go along with it—to do what Tony wants—and he did, without so much as thinking about it.

"Right," Rogers says. He stands up and straightens up, commanding the attention of the team, and Steve isn't quite sure whether to think _I remember these days_ or _I didn't think I was ever that young_. "This is the situation. We still have our two visitors from another dimension."

Next to him, Stark laughs quietly. "When this is all declassified, I'm publishing the Marvels issue of the goddamn century. You just watch me."

Rogers' stern visage is softened into a smile, and he glances down at Stark, sitting at his feet, and chuckles. "You gonna let me draw it?" 

_We used to be like that_ , Steve thinks, envious. He wants that. God, he wants that. He wants to take everything back. He can't. He wants them never to have hurt each other. None of the arguments, none of the fights. He wishes he'd never learned what it felt like to break the armor's faceplate with his fists. When he glances over to Tony, Tony's worrying at his lip with his teeth, face gone tight around the eyes, and for an instant it feels like Tony wants the same thing, and if he knew what to say, if there were words he could say—but there aren't. There can't be. They can try to move on, but they can't have this back.

"Oh, I'll let you," Stark says, with a fond smile in return. "It's a sure thing."

Rogers clears his throat and looks up. "At any rate, we're not in a position I'm happy staying in. Even with the encouraging situation in Naples, we've been sitting past the Winter Line for a week and a half. It's getting colder and colder lately, and being in German-held territory in a blizzard is not my idea of a good tactical position."

It snows, Steve remembers. There was in fact a blizzard over the winter. The Allies hadn't made much progress over the winter due to all the snow later in the season. They had managed to punch through at San Pietro in the middle of December—which is clearly when they are—and the Invaders were a small enough team, and fast enough—especially with three fliers and a speedster—that they'd been able to get to Cassino and back with no fuss. No results, but no fuss. The Axis hadn't even sent anyone powered against them.

"It does snow," Steve agrees. "At least, it did. In my world, we didn't really stick around to play in it. Never found anything at the monastery."

"The Infinity Gauntlet's definitely gone from Cassino," Tony says, with a grimace. "Sorry about that. I've only got relatively local sensor capability, so I can't tell where the Gems all went to, but none of them are there anymore. We're going to need another way home."

"Options?" Steve asks.

Steve's vaguely aware he's wresting control of the the briefing away from Rogers when he opens his mouth again, but working through these problems with the Avengers—with Tony—is so familiar that he hardly thinks about it before asking.

"For us? Only one thing left." Tony is brisk, no-nonsense, and this could be any team briefing. "I have to try to build something." His face clouds with chagrin. "I wish I had more to work with than 1940s technology, I have to say. But I'll see what I can do." He glances over at Rogers. "Permission to take things apart, Captain?" He's so carefully formal with Steve's counterpart.

Rogers squints at him. "We really ought to get moving," he says, but his voice is less firm; the sentence trails off.

If it had been Steve in command here, calling the shots, he would have made his decision and stuck to it. And maybe Tony would have tried to push him because, well, it was what Tony did. If Tony had cogent arguments he would have at least considered them; contrary to popular belief, Steve can actually change his mind. But he doesn't waver, and he doesn't let himself get pushed. Especially when Tony offers nothing except _please_.

Rogers is going to let Tony push him, and Steve wonders why; at the same time, he feels like he can't call him on it. Even though Tony is clearly leaning hard on some odd dynamic between them, it would be exposure, betrayal to mention it. And then he realizes why. Rogers is letting Tony push him because he'd let Tony's counterpart push him.

He wonders if Rogers knows.

"One day," Tony says, wheedling, coaxing. "Just one day. You've already been here this long. Please. Give me a day to investigate our options, and then we can move on to wherever you want next." He frowns. "Although, as a matter of personal preference, I would rather not be turned over to intelligence and grilled for information on the future."

"You've given us plenty," Rogers says, easily, like he isn't even thinking of doing that. Torch has been walking around vacant-eyed since yesterday, stunned at the idea that he kills Hitler. For all that Tony only saw the death in what he was telling them, Tony gave them hope; he gave them a promise of victory. Steve knows that Tony still hasn't told them the most crucial information, for him.

Rogers probably thinks he sees the end of the war. Christ.

"As far as I'm concerned," Stark says, "you can part out any of what I brought to analyze the Cube. Not like it's going to do anyone any good now."

Tony brightens. "Can I?"

Rogers has clearly come to a decision. "All right. You can have one day. But we're on the move tomorrow."

"Thank you," Tony says, and the look in his eyes now is honest gratitude.

"Hey, can I watch?" Stark asks, and Tony laughs.

"Are you kidding?" Tony asks. "You're going to be _helping_."

And then the two of them are off to the equipment tent, already starting to jabber on about frequencies this and time stream that. Steve leaves them to it. He knows he's not needed. He tries not to feel stupid about it, but sometimes it's so hard not to give into the nagging thought of _why does the genius want him around?_ especially now, right after Tony had so conclusively demonstrated that he hadn't. Or so Steve had thought, when Tony had sided with the SHRA.

But maybe he'd been wrong about Tony not wanting him around. Tony had wished for him with the Infinity Gauntlet, after all.

Steve wishes he knew what any of it meant.

Regardless, Tony and his counterpart are gone now, leaving Steve with the Invaders... and himself. Rogers looks at him like he doesn't quite know what to make of him; Steve supposes that one's first experience with the multiverse is always a little daunting.

"So," Rogers says, and the corner of his mouth twists up.

"So," Steve echoes, and then he knows exactly what to say. He knows what would work on himself, anyway. "Want to spar?"

Rogers' face breaks out in a grin. "Sure."

Behind them, the Invaders are murmuring at each other in awe, and Steve thinks Bucky and Toro are betting.

"No shield," Steve says. "I don't have mine. No gouging, no scratching. Clean fight."

Rogers gives a tight nod. He's starting to loosen up, bouncing a little on his toes, and he hands the shield to Bucky.

"Out of curiosity," Steve asks Bucky, "which of us are you betting on?"

"Not you," Bucky says, and he doesn't even look sorry.

Steve laughs. "Loyal, aren't you?"

"The me in your universe would have bet on you, wouldn't he?" Bucky asks.

Steve grins. "Point."

They've spread out; there's enough clear, flat space for them to have a decent showing. They back up; the Invaders are ringing them in a loose circle. Bucky and Toro are grinning avidly; Torch is interested, though trying to play it cool; and Namor is standing there, unimpressed, with his arms crossed over his chest. They might as well all stay for this; if Tony's looking out with Extremis he's the best sentry they could have, he thinks, with pride, and then he catches himself because he's thinking about Tony again.

Rogers raises his fists and eyes him as they start to circle each other; Steve likewise raises his own fists. _Not battle_ , he tells himself, and thank God he isn't sparring with Tony, and why the hell is he thinking about Tony _again_ —

He's so distracted that he nearly misses it when Rogers throws the first punch, and Steve twists back and away just in time. Sloppy, he's sloppy. Rogers is younger and he's combat-ready; he's spent the past six months in the field and not in Red Skull's own bizarre reenactment of _Slaughterhouse-Five_. (He is never reading that book, no matter how much Tony recommends it, and God, there he goes _again_.)

Steve tells his chattering hindbrain to quiet down, and throws his own punch in return. It doesn't connect either, but he's closer. Rogers may be at the top of his game, trained by the Army's best experts in hand-to-hand, but Steve has had a decade to learn martial arts that Rogers has never even heard of. When Rogers steps close again, Steve drops back and down, one hand on the cold ground, and he kicks up hard in a capoeira move that catches him unawares and connects just under the ribs.

The air jolts out of Rogers' lungs and he laughs, surprised. "Fancy fighting in the future, huh?"

"You bet," Steve says, and he vaults to his feet in one jump, kicks up and out again, then he snags Rogers by the front of his uniform and pushes him down, back to the dirt. Rogers smacks the ground once, flat-palmed, in surrender.

"Best of three?" Rogers offers, grinning, and Steve nods and gives him a hand up.

In the second round, Rogers goes _fast_ , and he goes for Steve's throat. He steps in and closes quickly, coming up behind Steve and wrapping his arm around Steve's throat. He doesn't have the weight advantage to get Steve on the ground, and Steve leans back and _pushes_. Rogers stumbles, but he's still got Steve in a chokehold, and when they hit the ground, Rogers rolls them over and plants a knee in Steve's back. He's got him.

Steve flails a hand and taps out; as Rogers lets him up, he's dimly aware that the chatter between Bucky and Toro has intensified.

"You keep going just like that, Cap," Bucky says, raising a fist in the air. "You do that again and Toro's buying me a drink, next leave we get."

Rogers grins and nods. "Can do."

"Hey!" Toro says, indignant.

"Don't worry," Steve says, not taking his eyes off Rogers, "I'm fighting for you, Toro."

The first two falls were fast; the third is anything but. They circle for a long time, feinting, testing each other, each trying to find the other's weaknesses. And then eventually Rogers' guard slips, just the tiniest bit, but enough. Steve is in there, one two, and Rogers staggers back. Steve kicks out, high and then back and back, a backflip, and Rogers is down, grinning dazedly up at time.

"I yield," he says, and his gaze slants over to the Invaders. "Looks like you're buying, Buck."

"Aww, well." Bucky grins. "It was worth it to see that."

Rogers stands and shakes Steve's offered hand as Bucky passes the shield back into Rogers' other hand. "Good fight."

"You nearly had me," Steve said, because he definitely would have if Steve hadn't managed to stop thinking about Tony, of all people. "Could have gone either way."

Rogers tilts his head, acknowledging the praise.

"Now what?" Steve asks. "I can help out with whatever you need—"

"I think we've got it handled," Rogers says. "Torch and Toro on watch; Namor and I will start planning good routes out of here." He pauses. "Actually, could you ask Tony to come see me? Mine, not yours. I have a few things to discuss with him. And you can get a progress report from— yours, I guess."

_He really isn't mine_ , Steve wants to say, but he smiles tightly.

"Sounds good," he says, and he heads off.

They're both so engrossed in their work that they don't look up when Steve pushes back the edge of the tent and ducks in. Tony's got his gloves off, tucked into his belt, and he's manipulating something very tiny and delicate in the remains of a device that Steve has no idea what it is. His face is furrowed in concentration, and Stark is peering over his shoulder staring in awe, like he's watching Tony create miracles. They could be twins. Steve supposes they technically are. God, Steve's always loved watching him work, he thinks, and then he shoves the feeling away.

If he just says _Tony_ , the vague thought drifts through his head, he'll get both of them.

He's not really thinking about it, but he opens his mouth anyway.

"Hey, Shellhead," he says.

He wonders where the hell _that_ came from.

Tony's hand slips and whatever he was working on sparks under his fingers and puffs out a plume of acrid smoke. He swears under his breath and then looks up, face pale, stunned, like he hadn't expected to hear that particular nickname from Steve again in his life.

And then he tilts his jaw up and smiles. It's a very small, tentative smile. "Yeah, Winghead?"

Well, now he knows how Tony felt, hearing the nickname. It feels like Steve's jumped off a cliff and is in freefall, plummeting, waiting to hit the ground. Tony hasn't called him that in years, he knows, and he hadn't realized until right now how much he'd missed hearing it.

Stark is staring at them like they're both crazy.

Steve swallows hard and clears his throat. "I, uh. I came looking for a progress report."

"Talk to him," Stark says, helpfully, and Steve intends to. Stark pokes at whatever they were working on with a screwdriver.

Grimacing, Tony turns the little bits of wire over in his fingers. "Not much yet," he says. "And it was better thirty seconds ago—" he very graciously doesn't blame Steve for distracting him— "but to be honest, the prognosis isn't great. Usually in this situation you'd expect the bottleneck to be a power issue, pure and simple." He reaches out and taps his armor case. "But I have the suit battery. It really helps that it isn't in my chest anymore, incidentally."

Stark raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, come on," Tony says, "I told you I used to have your problem." Steve guesses Stark has something implanted. Well, he is a Tony Stark, after all. "Anyway," Tony continues, "the problem isn't a lack of power; it's more that there doesn't seem to be anything worth hooking the suit battery up to. I am significantly hampered by available technology, and most of what I have I'm already wearing, uh, internally. So I can't cannibalize it. I'd have been a lot better off with an older armor model, in some ways. And please don't tell me you told me so."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Steve says, and he's surprised to find that he really means it. "So is that a no?"

"We'll keep working," Tony says. "But it's not looking great. I need the most cutting-edge technology—and that's not a guarantee that it will work. Even then I suspect I might be able to get us a portal in time or across the multiverse... but not both."

Steve ponders that. "It'd be the war _again_?"

Tony nods. "Sorry."

"Don't be," he says. "You're doing your very best. You always do. You'll get something." Tony looks at him narrow-eyed, like he thinks the praise is a trick.

"I wish I hadn't lost the Gauntlet, though," Tony says, and there's nothing to say to that. "It would have solved all our problems."

Solving problems with the Infinity Gauntlet sounds a lot like hammering a nail with a thermonuclear bomb, but Tony has a point.

"True," Steve acknowledges, and then he remembers he had another message to pass on, and he turns to Stark. "Oh, and Captain America wanted to see you. He didn't say why."

A strange smile spreads across Stark's face. "Isn't that you?"

"You know what I meant," Steve says, dryly.

"I do indeed," Stark says, still grinning. He bounces to his feet and he's gone in a flash.

Taking Stark's place, Steve crouches down next to where Tony is sitting on the blankets; he's made himself a makeshift desk out of one of the closest boxes. "So, what's it like to be in the presence of genius?"

"Ha," Tony says. "He's not bad," he adds grudgingly. "He is also hampered by available technology. You should see what he's done to his heart, though. Ingenious _and_ horrific." He makes a face at one of the disassembled devices. "God, I hate vacuum tubes. Wish I could have landed somewhere they'd invented the transistor, at least."

"I feel for you." Steve's still feeling a little sarcastic, but he does mean it. He remembers how much Tony used to love those transistors of his.

"I'm sure." Tony looks up at him. His face is so close, Steve realizes, and his eyes are suddenly wide. "So," he says, softly, "want to tell me what that was all about, _Winghead_?" Tony's mouth lingers on the old, old nickname, like it's precious to him; his lips purse tight with the first sound.

Steve flushes hot and he doesn't even know why; something about the question is astonishingly intimate. "I needed to call you something." His voice is tight, hoarse. "I needed something only you would... respond to... and I have the impression our counterparts don't know each other well enough for nicknames."

"Oh?" Tony asks. Tony has ridiculously long eyelashes, Steve thinks. He's never noticed this before. "That's all it is, then? Convenience? You're going to tell me that's the only thing you meant?"

"No," Steve says, very quietly, because he knows it wasn't, and he knows Tony knows. He thinks maybe it meant more than even he knows, that it means something else to Tony. "I can't lie to you."

Tony smiles, a ghost of a smile. "You never could."

And then the moment's gone, and Tony's sitting back on his heels. He frowns at the electronics in front of him, shifts them around, and peers under them, like he's looking for something in particular. He pats at his waist and opens a couple of the equipment pouches on his belt, and then he frowns again.

"Did you lose something?"

"Yeah," Tony says, still frowning, patting down his pouches again. "Indiana Jones there must have walked off with the screwdriver."

"I'll go get it," Steve volunteers, both to be helpful and also to escape the odd kind of tension that's emerged between them.

He doesn't know what to make of this. Shellhead and Winghead. He can't help smiling to himself as he turns away and stands up; he makes sure he's facing away, where Tony can't see him. It's not like he can ever hide anything from Tony, and it feels like letting Tony know he's happy about this, about him, would be... too much. Too revealing. The emotion itself is so fragile, and he— he can't. Everything within him wants to trust Tony again. It's too soon.

Something's growing between the two of them, though, something new and bright coming to life in the ashes. Something about this feels just like the old days, like the world is strange and full of hope. It shouldn't; it's nothing like the old days. Back on their Earth, Tony's still running Registration, and Steve's still a criminal. There's nothing good there, Steve tells himself. Nothing's going to be good, and going home will only get him closer to his inevitable trial. He shouldn't be happy about any of this.

But he is happy. He thinks about the way Tony looked at him, the way Tony's mouth shaped his name, his nickname, and he's happy.

* * *

Torch and Toro are nowhere to be seen—so they're on watch—and Namor's sitting in the middle of the camp. It looks like he's writing a letter, and he glances up when Steve approaches. Steve guesses that whatever his counterpart had to say to Namor was relatively brief, because it looks like he's already a few paragraphs in when he folds it up as Steve heads toward him.

"Captain," Namor says. "Can I help you?"

Steve nods. "I'm looking for Stark. Your universe's, not mine."

Namor turns and points in the direction of the command tent, a little ways away from the rest of the tents. "He's with the captain." His lip curls, just a bit.

"Thanks," Steve says, and he jogs off, wondering in the back of his mind what the hell Namor and Tony have against each other in apparently every universe. Namor has always been civil with him. More or less. Minus the times he's fought the Avengers. That might explain Tony's attitude, actually.

He's not expecting anything noteworthy when he approaches the tent. Stark and Rogers are probably conferencing. He can just duck in, get the screwdriver, and give Rogers Tony's report, if Stark didn't. He's not really thinking anything of it. It'll be simple. Easy.

Steve pushes his way into the tent.

At first he hardly understands what's going on; it's so far from what he was expecting that he can't even begin to process it, except in scattered fragments of astonished perception.

Rogers is sitting on one of the blankets in the middle of the tent, head tilted back, eyes closed. The cowl of his uniform is pulled back. His face is flushed, bright and ecstatic. One of his gloves is off, and his bare hand is— his hand is—

Stark is on his knees, bent down, and his head is in Rogers' lap. Rogers' fingers are twisted into Stark's hair. Rogers' pants are undone, and Stark's lips are stretched around Rogers' hard cock. Stark's eyes are shut, and he's sucking Rogers off more enthusiastically than Steve could ever have imagined was possible, like he's trying to win some kind of award for fellatio. Stark's head bobs in a practiced, fast rhythm, and Rogers is thrusting up into his mouth with helpless little rocking motions and wet, obscene noises.

God help him, the only thing Steve can think, the only thought left in his stunned mind, is that this is the most arousing thing he has ever seen in his entire life.

Heat pools low in his belly.

Rogers moans.

He's close, Steve knows, as Rogers' fingers tighten in Stark's hair and his gloved hand flails for purchase on Stark's shoulder, trying to draw him nearer. Steve knows what it means because it's _him_ , and God, he gets like that when he's about to—

Steve realizes he's standing here watching another version of himself having sex with Tony Stark, and he's _hard_ , and there is no way to explain this that does not make him into the lowest and most despicable of perverts. He needs to leave. He needs to leave right now.

Rogers opens his eyes.

He's staring at Steve, not seeing anything at first, looking through him, dazed with pleasure, and then he blinks and his eyes go wide in horror.

"Fuck," Rogers says, thickly, terror in his voice, and he hauls Stark's head up.

Stark turns his head and looks back. He's beautiful, Steve thinks stupidly. How did he not know Tony Stark was beautiful? How can this be something he's never realized? Stark's mouth is bright red, slick and shining. He was smiling, but now the smile is fading rapidly. The lust-bright gleam in his eyes dims. "Oh, _Christ_ ," he says, and his voice is hoarse, because he's been— because he's just been—

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were— I'll— I'll just go," Steve finally manages to say. The words rasp out of him. He feels unsteady, weak, and he's not sure he can walk but he has to _get out of here_.

Everything is colliding together in his head and nothing makes sense; he has the awful feeling that he needs to get away or they'll _know_ , and he doesn't even know what they'll know but he needs to not be here. He's shaking.

They're saying something; they might be talking to Steve, but he doesn't know. It's all so much meaningless sound. He can't stay. He's turning, he's running out of the tent, he's gone, he's gone.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/35250/35250_original.png)

* * *

Steve's running, and he's running, and he doesn't know where he's running except he hopes he'll eventually be able to find that quiet place in his mind where there's nothing but the feeling of his feet hitting the ground with every stride. He's not having much luck. Or any luck.

With every breath, with every footfall, a detail engraves itself upon Steve's mind. The way his counterpart's face—his _own goddamn face_ —looked in the throes of pleasure. Rogers' hand in Stark's hair. Stark's mouth, Stark's fucking _cocksucking_ mouth. _How could he_ , Steve thinks, and the thought doesn't make sense. It's part anger and part something else entirely and nothing at all makes any sense. _How dare they?_

He hears footsteps behind him and he knows who that must be, because there's only one person here who could catch him.

There's no point in running. He slows and then stops. When he turns around, Rogers is standing a little ways away. Rogers' chest is heaving, and his eyes are wide with something that looks a hell of a lot like barely suppressed panic. _He's a goddamn kid_ , Steve thinks, and he wonders how the hell Stark charmed him into bed. And why.

Tony's awfully charming, he thinks, and the thought catches and tangles in the mass of confused anger seething and churning in his gut.

"Please don't tell anyone," Rogers blurts out, terrified, and God, he's _begging_.

Steve takes a breath to try to compose himself. It doesn't really work. "What?" he asks, curtly, and his voice is shaking. "You think an older version of you from another universe is going to go to your CO and tell him you've been fucking Tony Stark? How exactly do you envision that conversation working out?"

He realizes too late that what Rogers actually needed was reassurance.

Rogers laughs, high and half-hysterical. "Wasn't even thinking about General Fury. I meant the rest of the Invaders."

Steve can't even imagine what the Invaders of his world would have thought if they'd ever found him with a man. He knows it wouldn't have been anything positive. Camaraderie was one thing, wartime bonding was one thing—but this was one step removed from fairies on street corners propositioning the sailors. Hell, Union Jack—Brian—had been gay, and—Nazi brainwashing being what it was—they'd fought against (and then with) his lover Roger Aubrey, and Brian had never breathed a word about him and Roger being anything more than good friends. Steve had had to find out after the ice, long after Brian had died. The two of them had apparently been together for years. Years. Since they were teenagers. Since long before Steve had met either of them. And they'd never told him. No one ever talked about anything like this. Not back then. Or if they did, they sure never talked to him.

Still, that was love. That was commitment. That was respectable. Honorable, even. Steve's always believed that love isn't wrong, no matter what anyone else says. Whatever Rogers is doing with Stark—well, Steve has no idea what the hell that is. Other than the obvious.

"I'm not going to tell the Invaders," he says, and he watches relief break over Rogers' face, a wave crashing against a cliff. "But... _Tony Stark_? How the hell— why— how long have you—"

He can't even put a sentence together. Goddammit.

"Over a year," Rogers says tightly. "Or under a week. Whichever you like."

And that makes about as much sense as everything else. "What?"

"I met him at a party," Rogers says. His voice is slow, patient. Like he needs to spell everything out for Steve. "The night before I shipped out. I hadn't seen him or talked to him since then, until he came out here for the Cosmic Cube." He lifts his chin up, and though he's still obviously afraid, his expression is one of absolute defiance, like he knows what's right and he will stand for it no matter what. "I met Tony, and fifteen minutes later he was in my bed, and don't you _dare_ look at me like I don't know exactly what I'm doing and exactly what I want, _Captain_. I am not ashamed. Of any of it."

Fifteen minutes? _Fifteen minutes?_ It's not just that it's Tony Stark, which is already inexplicable— _is it?_ something whispers, in the back of Steve's mind—it's not just that it's a man, it's that Steve _doesn't do that_. He doesn't fall into bed with strangers at the drop of a hat. He can't possibly imagine doing that.

For all that they're supposed to be the same person, they're really, really not the same at all.

"Fifteen minutes?" Steve repeats, stunned.

"I don't think you understand," Rogers says. "He's _Tony Stark_."

He says Tony's name with a kind of reverence, a kind of awe. It's like how people who don't know Tony talk about him, some of them, sometimes, when he comes up on the news—but there's never quite this much admiration in their voices. And for all of his feelings about Tony—he doesn't even know what those are, anymore—he knows he's never talked about Tony like _that_. Rogers says Tony's name like the name alone is an explanation for— for whatever he feels.

Rogers is young, he tells himself. It's some kind of bizarre infatuation. A passing fancy.

"Then why don't you explain it to me?"

Rogers sighs, like he doesn't even know where to start. "I'm not sure you _can_ understand, if your world is so different. But I'll try." He lifts a hand, and with a wave of his palm he gestures at himself. "I've been... given to understand... that we must have had similar childhoods, so if I tell you I haven't always looked like this, or been this healthy, you know what I mean, don't you?"

"I know exactly what you mean," Steve tells him. "I was a beanpole before Project Rebirth. Tall and scrawny. Always sick."

Rogers nods. "Whatever was going around the neighborhood, I'd catch it, and I'd catch it worse than anyone else. Spent a lot of time in bed."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, remembering, and he wonders where Rogers is going with this.

"There was a lot of time where I had nothing to do but read," Rogers says, and his voice is drifting, reminiscing. "I always liked the pulp magazines best. You ever read those?"

Steve nods. "I loved 'em. Science fiction. Fantasy. Alien monsters with ray guns and all that." And then he'd gotten to meet actual alien monsters with ray guns; the shine had kind of worn off the experience by the time he was punching his fifth Skrull in the jaw.

"When I was—oh, I must have been ten years old—I was sick again," Rogers begins. "Can't remember what I was sick with, but I was stuck at home. My friend Arnie was a real pal, though. He came to see me and brought me a big stack of magazines to read while I was sick. He said I could keep them, even. He was done with 'em. And on the top of the pile right there was Marvels: A Magazine of Men's Adventure. Issue number one." The smile is wistful, misty-eyed. Steve supposes that's the pulp magazine Stark was talking about.

And Steve _remembers_ that. Not Marvels, obviously, because his universe never had that, but he remembers Arnie coming to see him, and he remembers a dazed fugue of reading about rocketships and trying not to cough his lungs out.

"I can still picture the cover," Rogers says, and he waves a hand in front of himself like he can make Steve see it. "A mountain landscape. A brave, handsome adventurer in hand-to-hand combat with a ferocious beast, almost like a dragon. And across the bottom, it said, 'Tony Stark and the Rings of Axonn-Karr.'" He smiles.

The Mandarin's Rings exist here? Now? Well, Steve thinks, they seem to have everything else. He's already too stunned for the information to rock him any further.

"The issue itself wasn't much different from the rest of the pulps," Rogers continues. "You know. A thrilling story of adventure and mystery, talking about how Tony Stark nobly pursued these mystical artifacts, these rings. Breathless prose. The usual. Dramatic illustrations of ancient temples and fights. And then I got to the very last page." A fond smile curves over his face. "And there was a _picture_."

"I don't understand," Steve says, because that's his goddamn theme for the day, isn't it?

"It wasn't just a picture," Rogers clarifies. "It wasn't a drawing. It was a _photograph_. Of Tony. I guess he must have been younger then than I am now, but it sure didn't seem that way to me then. He looked grown-up. Worldly. Experienced. And he was standing there with this rakish smile, in his suspenders and shirtsleeves, shirt just a little unbuttoned at the top. And he was holding the ring from the issue. And that's when I realized that Marvels wasn't just telling made-up stories, like the other magazines. It was telling real stories, things that Tony really did. I didn't even realize people could do any of those things, real people. But he did them. He was brave and he was strong and he was _real_." His eyes are shining. "And I think... I think that was when I fell in love with Tony Stark."

"You were _ten_ ," Steve says, in disbelief. "You were ten and he was a guy in a magazine."

This can't be right. Because if Rogers feels like that about Stark, what the hell does that say about him and Tony?

Rogers waves a hand dismissively. "So my feelings have evolved since then," he says. "So what? But that was where it started. God, I stared at that picture so long I can draw it from memory, even now. It was a couple more years before I started to have—" he coughs— "other feelings about it."

"I really don't want to know," Steve says, even as the voice in the back of his mind whispers that he really, really does.

Rogers just gives him a look, like he knows exactly what Steve is thinking. "So I kept reading Marvels. Saved every penny I could. Bought every issue. And every time I was sick, every time I thought I was hopeless, every time I thought I was trapped in my own worthless body and I'd never be strong or handsome and no one would ever want me, every time I thought I wasn't going to make it—I had Marvels. And I read about Tony Stark, my hero Tony Stark, who was strong and brave and handsome and everything I wasn't, going on every adventure I thought I was never going to get to have. He did everything I couldn't. I lived my life through him. I didn't think I'd ever really leave New York. But Tony got to climb mountains and crawl through caves and hack his way across jungles. I used to imagine I got to be there with him. I dreamed about it."

He knows the look in Rogers' eyes now, but not because he's ever seen it on his own face. He's seen it on _Tony's_.

This is how Tony used to talk about Captain America, he thinks, stunned. His hero. Just like this.

"I almost got to meet him once, you know?" Rogers looks away. "I was sixteen and I was going to meet him. I'd heard he was going to give a talk at Columbia and I was going to put on my Sunday best and sneak in like I belonged there, like I was one of the students. And—I had this all worked out, you see—I was going to bring my portfolio, and I was going to go up to him afterwards and tell him how much I admired his work, and show him my sketches, and ask if there were openings at Marvels. In my fantasy, he was going to hire me."

"What happened?"

"I broke my goddamn _arm_ that morning," Rogers says, grumpily, like even now he's still bitter about it. And, yeah, Steve remembers doing that as well. "Didn't get to go."

"But you met him eventually, obviously."

"Yeah." Rogers nods. "That was after Rebirth. Tony was apparently working on the project, though I never met him then. But Rebirth was—" He sighs and shakes his head, grinning. "An adjustment."

"I remember," Steve says, and boy, does he.

"I don't know if this was true for you," Rogers says, "but me? No one so much as gave me the time of day, before. No one would look at me. My romantic experience, such as it was, was brief, awkward, and with people who were obviously taking pity on me. And then I got the serum, and suddenly _everyone_ waslooking at me." He smiles ruefully. "It was overwhelming. I couldn't deal with it. I turned all the offers down. There were a lot of them."

Steve nods. "Yeah," he says. "I remember that, too. I didn't know what to do. Thought I was going to go crazy."

"So I went through Basic," Rogers goes on. "And they came up with Captain America, and they were putting me on posters. And then, somehow, just before I shipped out, I ended up staying with some of the wealthiest people in New York. Going to their parties. The Army thought it would be good publicity for Captain America, you know? So it was the day before I was due to head overseas, and I was being put up with this one family, the Van Dynes. Father and daughter."

Steve smiles at the name. "You know Jan?"

Rogers nods. "Not very well. That was the first and only time I met her. But she seemed very nice."

"She is," Steve agrees.

"Anyway, the Van Dynes were throwing a party," Rogers says. "And Janet asked me if there was anyone famous I particularly wanted to meet before I shipped out. She said she knew all of New York's elite. And of course I said I'd always wanted to meet Tony Stark. What else was I going to say?" He laughs. "I thought she'd say no. I knew Marvels had been shut down and that he was working for the Army. I figured he was overseas, or he was busy, or she didn't really know him. But she just beamed at me and said that she and Tony were old friends and it would be no problem at all to telephone him."

"So you met him."

There's a wide, dreamy smile on Rogers' face. "So there I was, Captain America, at this party, trying to make small talk with millionaires. And then Tony Stark was standing in front of me." The smile is wider. "And he was looking at me— _me!_ —like he liked what he saw. Like he wouldn't mind seeing me without the uniform. And we went outside and got to talking, and he— he made a pass at me. Tony Stark. The man I'd wanted since before I knew what it was to want someone. He wanted _me_. And how in the world was I ever going to say no to that? Why the hell should I have?"

"You slept with him," Steve says, numbly.

Rogers' jaw is tilted up, defiant. "And it was fucking _fantastic_." Steve says nothing, and he presses on. "He told me to ask for him if I ever found anything strange. I found the Cube. So I called for him. And he came here, and he wanted me, and he still wants me. And I still want him. So _that's_ your 'why Tony Stark,' Captain. That's what he means to me."

Rogers is in love, Steve thinks. Goddammit. He's found a universe where he's in love with Tony Stark.

"He'll use you," Steve says. "Maybe— maybe he won't mean to, but he will anyway. He lies and he smiles and he holds out his hand and he makes you believe that he'll always be on your side, but when it comes down to it, when your back is against the wall, it's always about what he wants. And he— he makes you trust him, and you know every time that it's going to happen again, even when he swears it won't. And it happens again, and again, and every time it's worse, and then your friends start to _die_ , and he looks at you and tells you it has to happen this way for the goddamn greater good."

And yet Steve still wants to trust him. Again.

"That's your world," Rogers retorts, fiercely. "That's not people, that's circumstances. I understand that— that horrible things have happened, but that doesn't mean that they're meant to happen here, or meant to happen forever. He's a good man."

"You don't _know_ him. Not like I do."

"Yeah, well, it seems to me like you know you should give him another chance." 

"You have no idea how many chances I've given him," Steve snaps.

"He's a good man," Rogers repeats. "We're the same people, you know. All of us."

"I am nothing like you," Steve says, desperately. He can't feel like that about Tony. He can't. He doesn't. And Tony can't feel like that about him. Even if maybe Tony used to look at him like—no, no. He can't think about that. It's over. There was never anything, and there never will be.

Rogers looks unimpressed. "You're wrong. You're me, and you're wrong."

"I'm _straight_ ," Steve says, and he knows the word is full of an awful kind of panic, the kind of feeling he just _shouldn't have_ because he's supposed to be better than this. Above this. He's not supposed to be afraid. He's Captain America. When he looks up, Rogers is staring blankly at him, and Steve realizes no one used to say that. The world used to be so different. The way everyone conceived of these things—it all changed. "I mean, I like women."

"Didn't say I didn't like women," Rogers points out. "It's not an either-or situation."

"I don't like _men_." Steve's voice rushes out of him too fast to be anything but terrified denial. "I think I'd know, wouldn't you?"

"No," Rogers says quietly. "I don't think you would at all." He steps closer. He tilts his head to the side. "See, I know how we are about feelings. Feelings are messy. Awkward. Uncomfortable. They're not simple things, like right and wrong. And sometimes, when it's too much, it's easier not to feel the thing at all. To push it away. To make it not exist. To forget about it." He's looking at Steve appraisingly. "I'm sure it's one of the qualities that makes you a good leader. You can put it all aside. You can focus. Some of the feelings, you can channel. If you're angry, you use it. If you're sad or— or scared, you push it away. You can bring it all back later, when the mission's done. But sometimes, those feelings, the big ones, the ones that really scare you? You don't ever bring those back. Or if you do, you tell yourself it's something else. You never look at it too hard. You never want to."

Heat rises up through Steve. He's not going to stand for this. He's not going to let this alternate version of himself who's only barely more than a child lecture him on his own goddamn feelings.

"You aren't seriously going to tell me that I'm queer and repressing it all." Steve snorts. "This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

He's an artist, for God's sake. He knows the difference between aesthetic appreciation and attraction. And it's not like he hasn't seen a lot of naked men in his life, between life drawing in art school and his time in the Army and the years of being an Avenger. And as for Tony specifically—well, it's not like he hasn't seen Tony naked more times than he can count, as has every other Avenger. For some reason supervillains really like to remove Tony's armor and Tony never likes to wear much of anything under it. If it was going to do anything for him, surely it already would have. He's capable of noticing that a man is attractive. Of course he is. And of course Tony's attractive. He's fit and strong, and he suspects people who like that sort of thing would call Tony's eyes pretty, and how can anyone not agree that Tony has a lovely smile? Not his fake smile—his real smile, so wide it crinkles his face, so bright it makes his eyes shine. Tony's definitely attractive. That doesn't mean Steve—

— _remembers how Stark looked on his knees, oh God_ —

What if it had been Tony?

What if it had been him and Tony?

What if Tony would _let_ him—

He knows what it would be like with Tony, he realizes. It wouldn't be like what he saw, except in the most basic of visual similarities. He knows Tony. Tony is unstintingly generous, and Tony is caring, and he's watched Tony pour out his heart in so many relationships, and get hurt and get broken and get up and do it all again. If they— if they did this, Tony would want him to be _happy_ , pure and simple. Tony would be slow, and gentle, and kind. Steve would— he'd want to be the same. They've already hurt each other so much. But they love each other, too. Steve's never been ashamed to admit that. He used to be proud of that, before everything that broke them. He thinks maybe he could be again.

And maybe Tony _would_ let him—

He remembers, suddenly, how Tony used to look at him. Oh, Tony had admired him; he'd made no secret of that. But sometimes, in the old days, they'd be talking, or even just sitting together, and Tony would look over at him, a brief flash of a gaze, intense, dark-eyed, longing, a glance that made Steve feel like his skin was too tight all over and that he wanted something badly but had no idea what it was, something distant and nebulous and hot and fierce all at once, something that made him shiver even on a warm day. He'd tried not to notice the look, and eventually Tony had stopped doing it, and he'd never known what it was. God, he hasn't thought about that in years.

What would have happened if he'd looked back, the way Tony had looked at him? What would have happened if he'd held out his hand?

He can picture it. A lazy day at the mansion, when everything was right, when nothing was broken. Sunlight catching dust motes in the air, making Tony shine brilliant in his armor. The way it would have felt, metal underneath him, his fingers reaching for the familiar catches—and then Tony's skin against his, yielding, giving everything up to him. His voice, his breath, his touch tracing fire through Steve's veins.

God, maybe they could have, Steve thinks, and he can't think straight. He can't hear anything over the roaring in his own ears. He staggers back. He's not sure how he's still standing. It's like everything in him has turned upside down. He's waking up to another new world.

He didn't know. How the hell didn't he know?

Rogers is just watching him, watching him like he knows exactly what he's thinking. He probably does. They're the same person.

"Yeah," Rogers says, quietly. There's no judgment there, no censure. "Are we on the same page now?"

Steve's mouth is dry. He swallows a few times. It doesn't help. He scrubs his hand over his face. "Maybe." He sighs. "Goddammit."

He doesn't have _time_ for this. He doesn't have the luxury to sit and contemplate his feelings. He has a job to do. He has his duty. He's always been willing to set aside anything else, including romance, because the Avengers came first. That's— that's been a dealbreaker in a lot of his relationships. He's not very good with relationships.

_Tony would understand that_ , his mind whispers. He knows Tony, of all people, would understand him. Tony _does_ understand him. They weren't best friends for a decade for no reason at all.

He can't seriously be considering this. They were trying to kill each other. If they ever had a chance once, it's gone now.

"It— it can't happen," he rasps. "So it doesn't matter what I feel, because it can't."

Rogers' gaze is a dare, a challenge. "Why not?"

"There's so much between us," Steve says. "We've fought for so long. You don't understand—"

Rogers raises an eyebrow. "I heard your entire argument yesterday, so I think I understand rather a lot."

"We can't just— I can't just forgive—" Steve tries to say, and all the words catch in his throat. "He doesn't love me." He's horrified to hear the words coming out of his mouth, the secret he didn't even know was in him, raw and pained and vulnerable, ripping him up inside. It's weak, it's pathetic to think that deep down, this was what it was about all along. He doesn't care, he can't care. Tony doesn't care, and so he can't care what Tony thinks of him. They're done. They're over. He'd raised his shield over Tony's face in that last battle, and he hadn't needed to bring it down. They were finished long before that. How can Tony love him? Steve tried to _murder him_. "Maybe he used to. He— he doesn't now. He can't. Not after everything."

He wobbles unsteadily. He thinks, for one ashamed moment, that he might cry. His throat is tight, and he's on the verge of tears. He shouldn't be reduced to this. He shouldn't be pierced to the heart because of Tony's goddamn feelings. He should be stronger. Braver.

Tony's always gotten under his skin like no one else could. Maybe he should have realized it meant something.

"That's bullshit," Rogers says, flatly.

"Then enlighten me," Steve snaps back, because he's hiding behind his anger, isn't he? It's another shield. If he only feels rage then nothing else can touch him. "Since you're apparently the goddamned expert on the guy you've known for a week and I've known for a decade."

"I saw his face." Rogers' voice is all fire. "When he first showed up here, he thought I was you, and God, the way he looked at me. I've never seen anyone look at anyone else the way he was looking at me. It was like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. It was like I was his savior." His voice goes rough. "He loves you, all right?"

"But I tried to _kill him_ ," Steve says. He holds up his thumb and forefinger, a fraction of an inch apart. "I was _this close_ to murdering him. He _begged_ me to. Christ. He shouldn't love me."

Pain ripples across Rogers' face. "But you didn't," he says. "You didn't, and that's what matters. And I think you should talk about it with him."

"I can't," Steve says, and again the terror descends on him, and Captain America doesn't say _can't_ , but he doesn't know how to deal with any of this, and he wants—

He wants to be with Tony—

Maybe. Maybe they can—

There's only one way to find out. He's got to talk to Tony.

He's been a soldier. He's been an Avenger. He's been in more battles than he can count, but no war has ever felt as overwhelming as this. He put his bare heart in Tony's hands a decade ago and he didn't even know until now that he'd done it. It was different when he didn't know, but now he feels profoundly vulnerable, like he's going into battle without his shield, trusting Tony not to hurt him.

And then, of course, he can only think of the war between them. The fighting, God, all the fighting. Him and his shield versus Tony and the world's most technologically-advanced armor. Steve remembered the first time he'd really seen the sheer scale of Tony's new Extremis-enhanced abilities, just before Registration. It had been that fight with Graviton, the one where Tony had flown in twenty minutes late, with his own power levels probably higher than the entire rest of the team combined, and he'd showed them all up with a terrifying amount of ease. Tony didn't need them. Tony didn't need him. Christ, maybe Tony had never needed him.

They'd fought in the ruins of the mansion, and Tony had taken his armor off first. So he wouldn't hurt him.

Steve realizes, with sudden bitter clarity, that Tony had been pulling his punches. In all the SHRA fighting. Throughout their war.

Tony hadn't wanted to hurt him.

Tony had never wanted to hurt him.

Dear God. What if he's been wrong about everything?

He has to talk to Tony.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," Steve mutters under his breath.

Rogers chuckles. "Welcome to life. Now go on."

He can do this. He knows how he feels. It's just a matter of saying it. He cares about Tony. He knows Tony cares about him. It's already true whether or not he says the words; he just has to give voice to it. He'll tell Tony how he feels, and then Tony will— and then Tony will—

Whatever happens, Tony will be kind. He knows this. Tony won't hurt him.

Steve smiles weakly. "Hey," he says. "Thank you."

Rogers returns the smile. "Good luck."

Steve takes a breath and turns back toward camp. He can do this. He can do this.

* * *

Tony raises his head when Steve enters the tent, and Steve can tell right away that this is his Tony. There's something indefinable in the way he moves, the way he holds himself, that's so familiar, so right, but even as Tony looks up Steve can see his counterpart's face overlaid on his, languid, flushed with pleasure, bright-eyed, mouth gone slick and red. He's never seen Tony like that, and he feels himself go hot, because he can imagine it all too easily now, how Tony would look at that moment, on his knees—

Christ. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. How had he never known? How had he known Tony a decade and never realized? But now that he's seen it, he can't stop seeing Tony this way, with desire. It would have meant nothing to him before: the bare length of Tony's forearms, as he sits here with his gloves off and the sleeves of his SHIELD uniform pushed up, a line of skin for Steve to run his fingers along; his pulse beating in the hollow of his throat, warm and alive, just the place for Steve to set his lips; and there's Tony's cheek, his jaw, the long graceful sweep of muscle from his chest to his narrowed hips, as he sits cross-legged on the blankets. Steve has touched him before—of course he has—as a friend, as a comrade, but he's never wanted it like this, so badly it feels like it could burn him, a wild and terrifying need. He thinks maybe he's never wanted anyone this badly.

Tony blinks up at at him a few times, eyes gone a little wide, and then he squints in confusion and sets aside the tangle of wires and metal that had been in his hands. "Steve? Is something wrong?"

He wants to laugh. _My entire life before this_ , he wants to say. _I didn't know_. 

"Our— our counterparts," he says, and his voice comes out of him unsteadily. "They're— they're together. Involved. Romantically. I— I found them. Together."

"Ah."

It's a dry noise of acknowledgment, a sound that could mean anything. Tony's face has stilled, has gone very carefully neutral, as if he's been wearing his suit helmet already.

"You don't seem particularly surprised." The observation comes to Steve's mouth before he can think about whether he should say it.

Tony's response is just as carefully delivered as the first sound, the words measured. "Which part do you think should surprise me? That I'd do it? Or that you would?"

_I_ and _you_ , he'd said, Steve thinks, not _they_. Even though it had been their counterparts. It had been those people. Not them. It wasn't him and Tony. And then it hits him: Tony isn't surprised. Because Tony _knows_.

"God, Tony—" he begins, and he's suddenly weak in the knees, shaking all over, and then his legs give out entirely and he sits down hard, on the blankets next to Tony. "I didn't know. I didn't. And I just— I never let myself think about it. About you. All these years."

"No."

Tony's voice is a hoarse whisper, and when Steve looks up Tony's eyes are shut, his face wracked with pain, as if what Steve's said is horrible, beyond his capacity to bear it.

"Tony?"

"No," Tony repeats. His voice trembles, and when he opens his eyes they're brimming with tears. "This isn't how this happens. Not here, not now, not like this. Ten fucking years, and now it's too late."

"It's not too late—"

Tony blinks at him, eyes gone watery and luminous. There are tears on his cheeks. "Do you want to hear a story, Steve?" He takes a sharp breath. His face has gone pale, again so still; he looks like he's waiting for his own execution. "Once upon a time, I used to be in love with you. I used to be blindingly, _desperately_ in love with you." He spits out the words as if they're poison.

_Used to be?_ he wants to ask, but he can't make himself speak.

Tony looks at him, and Steve has no idea what expression is on his own face, but it's apparently good enough for Tony, as Tony shifts position, drawing his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He keeps talking. "The day the Avengers found you was the best day of my life, and I was in love with you. It was all infatuation then, of course. I didn't know you. I loved Captain America. But then I got to know you, and I still loved you. You were a thousand times better than the stories, and for some reason you— you wanted to be my friend. I just felt so goddamn lucky to even know you. I loved you even more, then. I'd stay up for days to build you silly little improvements for your gear, just to make you smile. It was terrifying, really, how much I loved you. How much I wanted you."

"Tony—"

"I would have given anything to be with you, then. For a night. Not even for a night." Tony winces. "For a kiss, even. Whatever terms you offered, I would have taken it. Maybe you'd want to pretend it never happened. Maybe you'd want to use me as your queer experiment and go right back to women. Maybe you'd tell me I meant nothing and you just wanted sex because you'd heard I was a good fuck. Anything you wanted. I would have said yes in an instant and been absolutely, pathetically grateful that you let me touch you."

He tries to interrupt again. "I'd never have done—" But Tony doesn't let him.

"But I knew you didn't want me." Tony doesn't meet his eyes. "I knew that. Oh, yeah, your best friend when you were a kid turned out to be gay. You've got nothing against it. Of course you don't. And I watched you date— Sharon. Bernie. Rachel. Connie. Rebecca. Whoever. And that was okay, I told myself. And it was. Your friendship was more important." He laughs, low and bitter. "Not like I can't get laid if I want it, right? It wasn't worth risking what turned out to be one of the best friendships I'd ever had, even if I ever deserved someone like you. And so it was easier... not to be in love with you." He looks away. "And then it wasn't so good. The Guardsmen. The Kree Supreme Intelligence. Mentallo. All the times we ever fought. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be in love with you. It was just going to hurt everyone worse, and maybe I'm a coward, but I couldn't. So I... stopped. Did a pretty good job, not thinking about it. And then we could be friends, right, Steve?" The laugh now is a breathless sob, the words twisted with anger. "Are we _friends_ now, Steve?"

The last fight, the words Tony didn't even breathe, the thing he doesn't dare to name, hangs between them.

"Even when we've fought, Tony," he begins, and he wonders if he can touch Tony, if he can steady him, a hand to his shoulder, to his knee. Brace him, hold him up, like they've always done for each other. "Even when we've fought, I always cared—"

"Goddamn you," Tony says, low and vicious. "Goddamn you, you were going to _kill me_ , and I'd— I would have fucking let you do anything to me, anything at all, and that was what you picked. And I would have let you do it, because I—" He breaks off. "And now you come here, and you offer me everything I ever wanted, and it's too late."

"It isn't," Steve repeats, and he feels tears beginning to prick at the corners of his own eyes.

He holds out his hand, palm up, between them: an offering. Tony doesn't take it. He just stares at him, eyes haunted. They're still on opposite sides of the fight, a world away. But here and now, that doesn't matter.

"I don't think you understand how much you mean to me," Tony says. His voice is barely a whisper. "This won't make anything better. And it might even make things worse. If there's a chance, even a chance, that someday we might be able to be friends again, I'll take it. I know it won't be like... before. It can't be. But I'd rather be your friend than anything else. I'd rather have friendship than failure."

"No one's talking about not being friends. And we're not going to fail."

"It could happen," Tony says, the words running together fast and nervous, like he's trying to talk himself out of it. "Hell, maybe we have terrible chemistry."

Steve knows in his bones that they don't. They've been Avengers for a decade; they've fought at each other's backs, trained beside each other. He trained Tony to fight. He knows Tony's body intimately; he knows how he moves, how he reacts, exactly where he'll be. It would be right. Better than right. It has to help. They know they love each other; surely that counts for something. They've always loved each other.

He doesn't think he intends to be seductive; he didn't know he knew how to be, not like this. But he licks his lips and smiles, and Tony's gaze drops to his mouth. "Tony," he murmurs, his voice already rough, "are you seriously trying to tell me I'd think you were a bad kisser?"

Tony's hand slides into his. His fingers are cool and dry, trembling minutely against Steve's skin.

"The worst thing about how I feel about you," Tony says, like it's a curse, "is that I never want to tell you no. Even when I know it's a really, really bad idea." It sounds like he meant it to be another dispassionate observation, but he shakes even more as he says it.

And Tony leans in and wraps his other hand around the back of Steve's head, and he kisses him.

Steve would be lying to himself if he said he had never wondered what it would be like. He's seen Tony kiss people; of course he's seen Tony kiss people. Tony's a demonstrative kind of guy. He's seen Tony in committed relationships: he's seen lazy, easy kisses, dropped on his girlfriend's cheek or hand. He's seen Tony coming back home after second dates, third dates, standing outside the mansion, holding the lucky lady of the evening in his arms, sweeping her up with practiced charm. And he's seen Tony, occasionally, on the prowl, sitting at some club and playing the game, every iota of him focused on his companion, every move calculated and sensual. And sometimes he'd wonder what it would be like if Tony ever looked at him like that, and then he'd wonder why he was wondering, because he couldn't possibly want that from Tony. Apparently he's been wrong about himself. Wrong about a lot of things.

The way Tony kisses him now is none of those things. It's not a game, it's not a seduction, and it's sure as hell not simple. Tony's kissing him like he wants to fit inside him and this is the only way; Tony's lips on his are hot and rough and slick at the same time. His beard is scraping Steve's face. Tony's kissing him desperately, like he wants to give everything in him over, like he can pour his heart and his soul into him, like Steve is the only thing that matters. He thought he'd seen Tony focused before, but he was wrong, because this is it, this is all of Tony. There are no pretenses, no lies, no clever tricks. Tony is unarmed and vulnerable and is giving himself up, giving in, putting himself in Steve's hands as he kisses him and kisses him. There are no secrets here. It's dizzying, it's _frightening_ , to know that this is how much Tony trusts him.

They draw apart. Tony's eyes are wide and dark and dazed, and his breath is warm and shivery against Steve's skin. Tony licks his lips.

"How's that for a bad idea?" Steve asks.

Tony laughs like he's about to cry again. "The worst." He takes a shuddering breath. "God, Steve, you're— you're _straight_ , for one thing—"

Steve feels heady, dizzy with desire. He wants to kiss Tony again; he wants to look at him, now that he knows what he wants; he wants to drink in the sight of him; he wants to touch Tony, to learn the shape of him with hands and mouth, to do everything Tony lets him. "Maybe I thought I was." His own voice is hoarse. "I don't feel very straight now."

Tony's hand is on the side of his face. His thumb is rubbing back and forth across Steve's cheekbone, marking him with a hot brand of pure need. Everywhere Tony touches him, he burns. Tony's palm slides firmly to his cheek; Tony's thumb now traces the corner of Steve's mouth, and a smile—a real smile—curves across Tony's lips. "You should see yourself. You look like you don't know which way is up right now."

"I know which way _you_ are," Steve says, and this time he leans in and kisses Tony first.

Tony's mouth meets his and it's like he's falling from a great height. He wonders if it feels like flying to Tony. The first kiss was lingering, slow, aching; this is something else entirely. This is all fire, raging, and it's almost like anger. It's like this is what was always underneath the anger, this mad, passionate intensity. It's a conflagration. Nothing makes sense except Tony's body under his splayed hands, and somehow Steve draws them closer. He doesn't make a conscious decision to move, but in an instant he's practically in Tony's lap, pressed as close to him as he can be. Tony's mouth opens against his and he tastes him, half-sweet, half-coffee-bitter. Tony groans and jerks up against him, pinned down but fighting it, thrusting up against him with a roll of his hips, and those SHIELD uniforms hide nothing and Jesus Christ, Tony's _hard_. For him. Because of him. Steve thinks maybe it ought to terrify him, and it sort of does, but his hardwired impulse in the face of danger is to run headlong towards it. He lets his fingers slide down Tony's spine, down to the dip of his lower back—

And Tony braces a hand on the middle of Steve's chest, palm covering the star, and pushes him gently away, out of his lap.

"Tony?" he asks. His voice is hoarse. Blood is pounding in his ears. Nothing makes sense. All he knows is that he wants to be kissing Tony again.

Tony's eyes are so dark that the blue is barely visible; it's like looking into the endless night sky. "Shh," Tony murmurs. "Hey. Easy. Slow down a little."

He sounds so gentle, like he thinks Steve's scared of him. Or maybe it's Tony who's scared.

"I want this," Steve insists. He has a hand on the nape of Tony's neck; he's rubbing a little circle, and Tony shudders and shivers, drawing a sharp breath. "I want you."

Tony smiles, but it looks a little pained. "Much as I have dreamed of hearing you say that for my entire life—this is awfully fast. I don't— I don't want to take advantage of you." Steve is about to object to the idea that Tony could make him do anything he didn't want to, but Tony looks away and his voice is low. "I know there's almost no chance this will end well, but I don't— I don't want to fuck it up, I don't—"

His voice catches and he stops talking. Steve can only feel Tony's skin through the ragged holes in the gloves, but he can tell that Tony's trembling, and not in a good way.

"No one's fucking anything up."

"Steve." Tony takes a breath. "It occurred to you that you might not be straight—what, ten minutes ago?"

"It doesn't matter when it happened," Steve tells him. "It's true." As terrifying as it is. When he knows something's right, he's certain about it. Even uncomfortable truths are still truths.

Tony gives a little laugh. "Christ," he says, under his breath. "I'd almost forgotten what a stubborn bastard you were. I missed that. God, but I—" He cuts off whatever he was about to say. "Steve," he tries again. "To the best of my knowledge, up until now the most daring thing that's ever happened in your romantic life was you dating a girl with pink hair, and as I recall you objected to the hair."

"It wasn't about the hair—"

"I'm just saying." Tony's smile is tinged with sadness, like he expects Steve to leave, to take anything that could make him happy away. "I'm a slightly bigger step into new territory than Diamondback, is all."

"And what?" Steve asks. "You think you're going to scare me?"

Tony's eyes unfocus; he's looking somewhere beyond Steve. "I think if I made you freak out I'd never forgive myself." The words are raw, honest, more exposed than Tony ever is. There are no masks here, not anymore.

He's nervous, Steve realizes. He's more nervous than Steve's ever seen him, and Tony routinely faces down threats that would make most people run away screaming. "Tony," he says, gently. "How much experience have _you_ had with men?"

"More than zero." Tony licks his lips again and still doesn't meet his eyes. "Less than the rumors."

Steve knows what the rumors are about Tony, what the gossip columns have always whispered in their little blind items. They paint him as a carefree playboy, an unashamed hedonist, a sybarite through and through, sleeping with men and women alike, on a whim. But it's never people who really know him who say that, and he knows Tony does like to play it up for the cameras. While he wouldn't be surprised to hear that Tony's at least tried everything he thought might interest him—out of some kind of scientific curiosity, if nothing else—as far as he knows, Tony's actual personal life is monogamous, relatively quiet, and—he's always assumed—heterosexual.

He supposes today is a day for being wrong about that, too.

"I never listen to anything anyone says about you," Steve says. "You know that."

The corner of Tony's mouth tilts upward; Steve wants to kiss it. "What, even me?"

" _Especially_ you," he says, firmly, and Tony chuckles a little.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me." There's a little bit more self-possession in Tony's gaze. "But, uh, last I checked, you were seeing someone."

"We'd been on and off," Steve says, and he doesn't want to think about Sharon right now. "We were off."

"She was brainwashed, you know."

"I didn't know," Steve says, but he's not really surprised. He hadn't thought Sharon shot him of her own volition, after all. But they'd been over before that. He watches Tony open and close his mouth like there's something else he wants to say and decides against it. "Is she all right?"

Tony shrugs. "She quit SHIELD. A hell of a lot went down. I'll— I can tell you later."

Steve frowns. "Were _you_ seeing someone?"

"Maya Hansen," Tony says, a little guiltily. "Until about two weeks ago. She faked her own death to go work for the Mandarin. She didn't know he was the Mandarin, but... that was really more than enough for me to call it quits."

Dear God, Tony could always pick 'em. Didn't she already try to kill him once? Steve supposes that makes _him_ the goddamn ideal date. Except for how he isn't what Tony wants, not really, because he's seen who Tony dates; he's not a brilliant genius who can keep up with Tony, he's not some beautiful gal, he _tried to murder Tony_ —

"Hey." Tony frowns and taps Steve's cheek. "Stop thinking whatever you're thinking."

"I don't deserve you," Steve blurts out.

The words hang there between them. This is why they don't talk about their feelings. Steve's horrible at them; he always has been.

Tony smiles again, that same pained smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Pretty sure that's my line."

He's not as good as Tony thinks he is. He _isn't_.

"I was going to _kill_ you."

Tony looks at him bleakly. "I know." He sighs. "And I know you don't agree with Registration, and I know I'm enforcing it, and I know you surrendered, and I know if we go home together nothing will be different. You're still facing treason and sedition charges. You haven't changed your mind, and I— I can't change mine." He shuts his eyes; when he opens them his gaze is sad, desolate. "It would be nice to have the luxury to sweep that all away, to say that only our feelings matter, to say that because we care about each other it'll be enough, but it's not. It can't be."

_Change my mind, then_ , he wants to say. _Make me believe_. But he can't make himself utter the words.

"Tony," he says, desperately, and he doesn't know what he wants to say. He wants this to be different.

Tony swallows hard. "I could get you a pardon," he says. "I know I could get you one, but you'd have to— well, you'd have to register. You'd have to work with me. I can't set you free and turn you loose. If you were anyone else, sure, but not you. Never you." His smile is thin and grim. "And I know you won't."

This is where he has to give in. He already surrendered once.

He can't do it again.

"Captain America has to be aboveboard," he agrees.

Tony's gaze is more than a little chagrined. "Strictly speaking, no," he says. "I officially disavow all knowledge of the activities or identity of the current Captain America. He has to be unregistered, actually. But that doesn't work with you. If I walk home through a portal next to you and you're alive, there goes the secrecy."

How the hell— what— Tony _replaced him_? "There's another Captain America?" He can't imagine Tony would have wanted to give the shield to anyone.

Tony stares at him, eyes wide in surprise. "If you meant something else by that letter you left me, you should have been clearer."

Letter? What— oh. The one he wrote to Tony, asking him to keep an eye on Bucky. "You gave _Bucky_ the shield?"

Bucky. God. He can hardly imagine it. He wonders how Bucky is.

Tony nods. "I thought that was what you were telling me you wanted." He smiles a little, a rueful grin. "Shows what I know. He's good, actually. He's doing great. But he can't register, otherwise he goes on trial for the Winter Soldier's crimes—" he raises a hand to forestall Steve's objection— "and I know we both know that he was brainwashed. I know it doesn't count. You don't even have to remind me about the years _I_ spent secretly doing Kang's bidding. But I'd rather not find out how a judge would see it."

"Fine," Steve agrees. "He can't be registered. I see that. But I'd have to be. That's what you're telling me."

Tony sighs again. "I think it would look pretty bad if the director of SHIELD were involved with an unregistered fugitive, yeah. Even if said fugitive is Captain America. Maybe especially if."

"I can't," Steve breathes. Unshed tears burn hot in his eyes.

Tony strokes Steve's face with his hand, a steady point of warmth. He's offering to be at his back, the way they always were. He's offering to fight at his side, just like the old days. Tony's eyes are glassy, too wet, and he smiles like he's dying inside.

Steve just has to agree. And he can't.

He can't fight Tony anymore, but he can't believe in Registration.

"I know," Tony says. "And that's why we can't."

But he looks at Tony and he knows that Tony would. He knows that if he said _please_ Tony would kiss him again, even though they both know it can't work. He knows that if he wanted it, Tony would do it. Tony would do anything he wanted, heedless of his own safety or sanity, because it was him asking. That's how much Tony loves him. That's how much power Steve has over him.

"You're right," Steve says. "I wish you weren't, but you are."

Tony smiles that awful smile again. "It's my curse." He says it like it's a joke, but nothing's funny.

They sit in silence next to each other, and all Steve can think about is the points his body is touching Tony's, brushing at the knee and thigh, and all he can think is that they can't have this.

He doesn't know what will happen to him when he gets home.

Tony will probably lock him up himself.

They're still sitting there, just barely touching, when the Invaders come calling for a team meeting and progress report.

They probably look like they're strangers.

* * *

They gather together. Nothing is different, and at the same time everything is different. Everyone's sitting in the same places on the same logs. Steve's sitting next to Tony, and all he can think about is that he _knows_ , the weight of a secret both bright and furtive burning within him. He knows the exact taste of Tony's mouth, the scrape of Tony's beard against his face, the sound of Tony's little breathless gasps of pleasure. It feels like everyone looking at him must know; Rogers is looking at him, and he's pretty goddamn sure Rogers does know, given their conversation and the fact that he can read his own facial expressions.

Rogers shoots him a grin.

He probably thinks it went well, and why shouldn't he? He gets to be with his Stark. They're on the same side of their war.

Steve isn't that lucky.

Rogers clears his throat and glances at Tony. "Your findings so far, Director?"

Steve guesses Stark didn't get around to passing on a report after all.

"Not great," Tony says. 

His face is downcast, and Steve can only imagine how much it's killing him to admit this. He knows how much Tony hates to be wrong, to be helpless. He suppresses the impulse to reach out and put a hand on Tony, to pat him on the back or briefly take his hand. One of the things that was hard to adjust to, after the ice, was that men don't touch each other. But Tony is, as always, a law unto himself. He's always liked touching Tony, and Tony's never minded. Steve thinks that if he does it now, though, it might be an awful lot like taunting him.

He watches Tony tell them all the same thing he said earlier, how it isn't a power problem but that the technology of the day simply isn't up to snuff. They need the Infinity Gems back, Tony says, but they're gone. That's all there is to it. He's out of easy solutions.

There's silence as Tony finishes speaking.

Rogers blows out a breath. "Right," he says. "That's it. I'm calling it. We're moving out. I guess you're coming with us, both of you. Can't think of anything else to do with you two. Wait a bit before you pack up the radio." He nods at Stark next to him. "Tony, now might be a good time to get on the horn, call in to HQ, Fury if you can get him, and—"

"I am a _fucking idiot_."

It's not Stark who speaks. It's Tony.

Tony laughs at himself, harsh and raw and mocking.

"I beg your pardon?" Rogers asks.

"The radio," Tony says, incredulously. He taps his temple. "No satellites, so I shut down all of Extremis' networking when I got here, but I forgot about the goddamn radio." He shakes his head. "Wherever the Infinity Gems went, someone's got to be talking about them. And we're right here, right next to a base. I can pick up everything they've been transmitting—"

Tony's smiling again. It's like watching the sun rise.

"It's going to be encrypted," Steve points out. "Unless you want to head back to the monastery and hope we find the decrypted messages in a room somewhere on their end, there's nothing we can do with the data on the intercept, is there?" He thinks he's the only one following Tony; none of the others really know what Extremis can do. It's strange. He's not usually the one keeping up with Tony's bouts of genius.

Tony waves a hand, and his face is lit up, all over, in the grip of an idea, and God, Steve's always loved looking at him like this. "I have more computing power in my little finger than the entire world has right now. I can crack Enigma in an instant." His grin is suddenly shadowed. "Besides, your Avengers were running antique analog comm systems, with encryption based almost entirely on the Wehrmacht's Enigma ciphers, in our recent... disagreement. I still have the algorithms on file."

Steve wants to laugh. If it turns out to be possible for them to go home solely _because_ they fought over Registration, that's... well... that's really something.

"It'll be in German," Steve adds, not because he wants to crush Tony's idea but because he's sure Tony's got a counter and he wants to see it. It's like sparring, but with words instead of fists.

He's not going to think about sparring with Tony.

Tony frowns. Maybe he wasn't prepared for that one.

"I know German." Namor raises a hand. "More than the rest of the team does, at any rate."

The Invaders have been slightly cagey about what Namor is doing with them, and Steve suspects now that there may be more than a little espionage involved.

"I do as well," Stark adds. "You decode and get me clear transcripts, I'll translate. Or I'll decode, if you get me the key. Depends on which you'd rather write down."

Tony gets that half-present look in his eyes that Steve has begun to associate with Extremis, and he guesses Tony's flipped the networking back on. "All right," Tony says. His voice sounds like it's coming from far away. His attention is definitely elsewhere. "Someone get me a notebook and a pen and I'll get you transcripts."

Bucky hops off a log and heads for the tent he's been sharing with Namor. "Can do, Mr. Stark."

And then Tony comes back to himself and blinks. He looks over at Steve with a curious expression in his eyes. "Huh. Did you know you're still wearing Avengers comms?"

Steve fumbles for the remains of the cowl and pulls it up. The familiar earpiece settles into place. He hadn't really been thinking about it. He'd have thought they'd have taken it off him at the Raft, but he guesses that the holding cells block transmissions anyway. They'd probably have taken it off him at the courthouse if he'd made it inside.

"Am I live?"

Tony nods.

"Mic check," Tony says. His voice is in Steve's ear, but he's not moving his mouth when he speaks, and Christ, Steve hates when Tony talks like that, with Extremis. "Check, check. Comms check. Avengers comms, primary line." There's a faint beep as something switches over. "Private line, check, check. You hearing me, Steve?"

"Five by five," Steve says, scowling, "and you know what I think about you doing that."

"Sorry." Tony's still smiling a pleased smile, but he runs a hand over Steve's shoulder in apology, and Steve shivers at the touch. "Well, at least we've got something working right."

Bucky presses a notebook and a pen in Tony's hands. "Here, Mr. Stark."

"Thanks."

Tony flips the notebook open to the first blank page, and Steve watches Bucky stare at him like he's waiting for Tony to do a magic trick. He thinks about what Tony said, that on their Earth, Bucky is Captain America now. It's an unconventional choice, but, well, Tony's never been much for convention. He knows the shield's in good hands; Tony said Bucky was well, and he wouldn't have lied. Not about that.

It's strange to think that six months have passed. He wonders what else has happened.

He wants to step back into that life, to see his friends, to see Bucky and Sam and Carol and _everyone_ , to stop hiding in the shadows, to live as a free man. He wants to be Tony's friend, like they used to be. He wants to be more than Tony's friend.

He knows that all he has to do is tell Tony yes, and he could have everything.

Except his integrity. Except his honor. Except his pride.

Tony looks up at Steve and the rest of the Invaders, realizing he has an audience. His smile is soft, a little sheepish. "You all can watch me if you want," Tony offers, "but it's not going to be that exciting. I just need to sit here and listen to the voices in my head." He grins again, clearly pleased with the joke, and he just as clearly wants someone to tell him so.

"You're hilarious, Shellhead," Steve says. "A real comedian."

Tony jumps at the name, and then smiles, wide, wide, wide, setting something aching deep in Steve's chest, and he wants— God, he wants— how did he never know that this was what he wanted?

"I do it all for you, Winghead," Tony retorts, and Steve suspects it would be funnier if it weren't true.

He wants them to be like this.

He can't say yes.

"Hey," Stark says, and the moment is broken. "I want an adorable nickname. How come I don't have an adorable nickname, Cap?"

Rogers laughs. "I'll think about it."

* * *

For the rest of the day, Tony retreats to the tent and covers pages and pages with neat, clear, writing, a draftsman's hand. Whenever Steve checks in on him, he's bent over and writing furiously, half in German and half in still-encrypted blocks of gobbledygook. He doesn't look up when Steve brings him a meal; Steve says his name a few times, and when he touches Tony on the shoulder Tony finally looks up, blinking at him like he can't quite remember how to focus his eyes.

"Spam," Steve says, cheerfully, holding out the can, and Tony wrinkles his nose. "How's it going?"

Tony flips through the pages with an ink-stained thumb. "Well, there's definitely something. I don't know much German, but from what I've cracked, the word 'Juwel' is coming up a lot."

Steve hazards a guess. "Gem?"

"Yep." Tony sighs. "I don't know which one, or ones, they've got, but someone on the German side knows where at least one of the Infinity Gems is, I'm guessing. If the Invaders translate this—" he brandishes the papers again— "hopefully they can pin down a location. And hopefully the Nazis don't know exactly what they've got. And hopefully there are no more Skrull plasma cannons floating around. I'm going to have a hard enough time taking out a base without backup anyway, if they have better weapons than they should."

"You've got me," Steve says, because that was never a question. "You've always got me."

Tony smiles weakly. "And you don't know how much that means to me, but I was thinking more that there may be logistical problems. Suppose the Gem they know about landed in Tokyo? I can fly anywhere, but I can only bring myself. What I wouldn't give for a Quinjet."

"We'll work it out when we get there," Steve tells him, and Tony smiles again.

Steve spends the rest of the time with the Invaders, the way he always used to do when there was downtime in war. They clean their weapons. They write letters. They laugh and joke and play endless rounds of poker. Torch smokes every last one of his and Toro's cigs combined. Bucky beats him at cards. He doesn't remember Bucky being so good at cards.

If Steve takes Bucky aside, or takes his own counterpart aside, and tells him one thing, just one thing, Bucky will never have to suffer.

He doesn't. He still has no goddamn idea why, but he doesn't.

It's dark by the time Tony emerges from the tent, bleary-eyed, notebook clutched in his hand.

"I'll take this," Stark says softly, and he plucks the notebook from Tony's unresisting fingers and turns him around with a hand on his shoulder. There's something bizarrely sweet there, watching Tony Stark be kind to himself. He never is when it's only him, Steve thinks. "Thank you," Stark adds. "You've done good work. Now go back and get some sleep, eh?"

"Sure," Tony mumbles, but he doesn't move, and he lifts his head to look at Steve. There's an awful, sad longing in his gaze.

He wants Steve there. He's not going to ask for him. It's up to Steve.

"Excuse me," Steve tells the team. "I think it's my bedtime."

When he gets to the tent he finds it once again softly illuminated by the glow of the armor—a gauntlet lies in half-constructed pieces outside of the case, presumably so Tony can have his favorite weapon to hand if he needs one. Tony himself is... under the blankets. Both of them. Steve wonders if Tony means for him to sleep on the tarp tonight; they can certainly trade if Tony wants to. It would be fair. _But it's so cold_ , he thinks, and he quashes the thought. He can handle it.

And then Tony pulls the blankets back and holds out a hand. "You can have all the blankets by yourself if you want," he says. In the darkness his eyes are nearly black, and his face is somehow weary and nervous, tired around the mouth, tight around the eyes. "But I thought you might be warmer if you wanted to lie with me."

Everything Steve can't say gathers in his throat, and he just stares.

Tony's smile is nervous. "This isn't a seduction," he adds, low and somehow sad. "I'm not that much of an asshole. I just thought that you could use the body heat. I won't try anything, I promise."

"I know," Steve says, and part of him wishes Tony would.

Tony's always given him so much, over the years. Of course Tony wants to give him his body.

So Steve smiles back, and before he can think of reasons not to give in, he pushes the cowl off his face, kneels down, and crawls in next to Tony. He turns on his side, and Tony fits himself up against Steve's back, pressing against him like their bodies were always meant to be together, a perfect fit, a solid line of warmth from Steve's shoulders to his hips and down to where Tony's knees curve against his and their legs tangle together. Tony's breath is warm on the back of his neck. Steve lifts his head and Tony works one arm under his neck, a makeshift pillow; Tony pulls the blankets up and then his other arm locks tight around his chest, bringing them snug together. Steve feels like he'll never be cold again.

It's more intimate than some of the actual sex Steve has had. He knows he's not very cuddly, himself, but he's pretty sure Tony could cuddle a brick wall if he tried. They meet in the middle. They always do. They always used to.

"Hey there, little spoon." Tony's voice, Tony's breath is warm in his ear, and Steve tries not to shiver again. He knows Tony isn't trying to make him— to make him feel anything, but heat prickles down his spine and into his belly, and, yes, his body says, he could definitely be interested in this. But he can't, and they can't. "Never figured that would be you, somehow." Tony breathes out a laugh, all air. "I just wanted to mention that it actually _is_ a gun in my pocket—"

" _Tony_ ," Steve says, annoyed, as Tony's thigh holster bumps into the back of Steve's leg.

And then there's something that definitely isn't a gun, hot and hard, nestling against the curve of Steve's ass.

Steve drags in a shaky breath and tries not to think about grinding his hips back against Tony. He tries not to think about all sorts of things Tony could do to him and with him that he's never thought about before in his life, things that he wants in a dizzying, hot, half-formed way, things he can barely conceive of doing, and he's sure it would be good because it's Tony. And he knows at the same time that Tony would never, because Steve can't tell him yes.

"And also that I'm very happy to see you," Tony finishes, in a breathless, half-ashamed rush. "You're an incredibly attractive man. I'm sorry. I'm only human. It'll go away."

Steve frowns at the familiar note of self-deprecation in Tony's voice. "You sure you're all right?"

"I'll be fine." Now he just sounds sad. "I've spent the entire rest of my life not kissing you, after all. I can handle it."

"The rest of your life except today, you mean." He doesn't know why he's bringing it up. He doesn't want to taunt Tony, but at the same time he doesn't want it to be something they can't talk about. He doesn't want it to be a guilty secret.

There's a puff of air against Steve's neck as Tony sighs. "Yeah," he says. "Except today."

A sudden, uncharacteristic uncertainty curls around him. "It was good?"

"How can you even wonder if—" There's a quiet laugh of frustration and disbelief. "Yeah. Yes. It was good, Steve. The best." He sighs again. "But are _you_ all right?"

"I'm warmer," Steve says, because wasn't that the point?

There's silence for a few seconds, like Tony doesn't know how to respond to that. "Good," he says, finally. "You shouldn't— you shouldn't ever be cold. Not like that. Never like that." He says it like a promise.

He's going to be dreaming about the ice again, he knows—and it will be worse, because now he's been through it awake. But right now all he can feel is Tony's arms around him. He wishes his life could be this simple. They're always best together.

"I'm glad you still care," Steve says, and he honestly is.

Tony breathes out, another huffed laugh against Steve's neck. "I never stopped." And then he sighs. "So," he says, and his voice suddenly twists with uncertainty, "while we're here, can we try this talking thing again? I... want to talk. About Registration."

And just like that, Steve goes cold in the pit of his stomach. "Now?"

"There are some things I want to say," Tony says. The words sound even, rehearsed, but this isn't Tony's practiced voice for the cameras; his body is shaking against Steve's. "I tried to tell you before. When I finally did, it was too late. I— I told your corpse." He laughs, a sob of a laugh.

"Tony—"

Steve shifts and tries to turn over, but Tony's arm is still over his ribs. It's not a solid pin, but then, they're not fighting. Yet. Again.

"Don't look at me." Tony's voice is low and hoarse. "I can't say any of it if you look at me."

That just makes him want to turn around and hold Tony tighter, but Tony said no. So he doesn't.

"I want to tell you why I did it," Tony says. "I don't expect you to agree with me, but I— I want you to know."

Steve blinks. "You told me," he points out. "At the mansion." He remembers Tony's accusations, Tony's frankly unbelievable story of Sentinels, Tony's insistence that he was using everyone, that he could stop this if he just agreed to give up his _rights_ —

"You didn't _believe_ me," Tony says, a frustrated complaint through what has to be gritted teeth. "You didn't believe me. You were never going to believe me. That's why I didn't tell you about the SHRA when I saw which way the wind was blowing. You were never going to believe it could happen. You don't believe me now. You don't believe me about Wideawake—"

The Sentinels. The goddamn Sentinels. Exactly why they shouldn't trust the government, in Steve's opinion. "No," he says. "I don't. Everything I saw happening was something _you did_ , and I was just supposed to believe you when you said that it could have been worse? I was supposed to sit back and condone everything you did because of some paranoid fantasy? You had to imprison your friends because the other choice was letting killer robots run amok? You have to know how that sounds, Tony."

The noise Tony makes now is unmistakably a sob. "You used to _trust_ me. You remember that?"

"When was that?" Steve asks, and God, he doesn't want to be angry, but he can't stop it. It's like a reflex, trained into him after years of fighting. "Was it before or after that time you sucker-punched me and disabled the Guardsmen? You remember _that_ , Tony?"

Tony's body against his is rigid with tension. "I get it," he says. "I get it. I've always done awful things, and you'll never forgive me." He takes a shaking breath. "But I just— I want to tell you about your funeral. Please. Just listen to me. Just this once."

His funeral. He doesn't want to know about his funeral.

But it seems like Tony needs to tell him.

Steve swallows hard and tries to breathe, tries to push the anger away. He can do this. He can listen.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. Tell me. I'm listening."

Tony's voice is tight. "It's not the funeral itself that I wanted to tell you about. You can watch that if you want, when we get home. There's a lot of footage of, you know, me crying too much to actually give a eulogy. So much fun." He sounds like he was trying for an artlessly casual tone and ended up in wretched misery. His hand tightens over Steve's ribs, a search for reassurance, and he's _hurting_ and Steve can't be mad at him. He can't.

"God, Tony." Steve covers Tony's hand with his own.

"So after the funeral," Tony rasps out. "After everyone's gone—why would I go home, right? What's left?" There's so much bitter loneliness in the words, and Steve squeezes Tony's hand. Tony doesn't seem to notice; he just keeps talking. "So I'm standing in the rain and a man comes up to me. Not human. He wasn't Uatu, but maybe he was some kind of Watcher. I don't know. He didn't exactly show me his ID." Tony breathes out, hot and damp, like he's trying not to cry. "He— he showed me the multiverse."

"This universe?"

There's a rustling noise as Tony shakes his head. "No. He showed me the war. The SHRA. Two worlds. He showed me how it could have gone."

Steve feels like he's falling, falling, and no one will be there to catch him. "How? What happened?"

"The first," Tony says, raggedly, and then he stops, like he can't quite breathe. "The first was everything I ever told you about. In that world, Extremis kills me. When the SHRA is passed, I'm not there to stop anything. Gyrich becomes the director of SHIELD."

"No." The word comes out of him almost involuntarily, a plea, a denial, because he remembers Henry Peter Gyrich, the man who had his fingers in all of the pies, who headed every committee about superhumans, who headed Project Wideawake. It seems frighteningly plausible that Kooning would appoint him.

Maybe Tony had been right all along.

Tony breathes another shaky breath. "I wasn't lying. I wasn't ever _lying_." He pauses, holds his breath, lets it out again. His voice jumps and wobbles. "And he— he makes Sentinels. He clones Thor not once, but hundreds of times. And you— you lead the resistance, but you can't hold out against Sentinels— they _kill_ you, I watch them kill you again. Everyone dies. Gyrich gets elected president, because the people are afraid of us. Not just mutants, not anymore. All of us." Tony breathes like he's drowning, like he's gasping for air. "That was what I saw. The Watcher didn't have to show me. I already knew. That was what was coming for us if I didn't support Registration. And that was why I did it. I know it was horrible. I know I did... reprehensible things. But I thought I could work from the inside. They could use me, but I'd use them right back. Let everyone hate me. That didn't matter. Still doesn't. I'd do good. I'd get people trained. I'd keep Wideawake away, and no one was else supposed to get hurt. Yes, I put my friends in prison, but it was better than putting them on a slab in the morgue, or a dissecting table. There weren't— there weren't other options. 'Change nothing' was not an option. This was happening, and I could either back it and try to pull the worst parts down, or let it kill all of us. So I did the only thing I could. No one else was ever supposed to get hurt. No one was supposed to die."

Steve strokes a thumb across the back of Tony's hand, where it's curled over his chest. They're both wearing gloves, but he can tell that Tony's hand is still cold.

"I believe you," Steve says, slowly. He does. He believes that's what Tony was trying to do. To help people, in his own way. Tony always wants to help. Steve may not believe that Registration is right, but— isn't it better than that world? Isn't anything? No, he tells himself, Registration's not better than the way it always was. But they've had this fight before, and he thinks Tony's not done talking yet. "What was the other world like?"

"Worse," Tony says, and something hot drips on Steve's neck. Tony's _crying_.

Steve can't even imagine what could be worse.

"Tony?"

"On that world," he says, and he buries his face in Steve's shoulder and he's shaking, "we don't fight. We're about to. You're about to hand me that EMP. But that's when it all changes. I tell you I need your help and you _stop_ , and when the clone attacks we fight him together. Together. And we— we compromise. You run Registration with me. We're friends. We're _happy_ , God, we're so fucking happy and none of it is _real_ —"

Tony's sobbing now, hot against his skin.

He wants that. He wants them to be happy.

"It was real for them, on that world."

Tony breathes in and out. "Yeah," he says. "I guess so. But not for us."

_Make me see it_ , he wants to say. _Make me believe in you, Tony, the way you always used to_. He can't say it.

"And the hell of it," Tony continues, "is that it could have been us. We're not really that different, you know."

Steve shuts his eyes and takes a breath. Tony doesn't mean it as an insult. Steve's going to listen. He can at least listen. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we want the same things." Tony's voice is low, pleading, though he doesn't say _please_. He's not actually asking. It's like he's given up asking. "We both want to keep the world safe. You don't object to getting the new heroes trained up. You don't object to making sure that we're funded, that everyone has medical care, that we can clean up the buildings we smash up. You don't object to making sure that people don't face threats they're unprepared for. But your hackles go up as soon as I say the words 'government oversight,' don't they?" He sighs again. "I don't understand. Hell, you were a cop. You were a _soldier_. If I said I was going to set up a police force—or draft an army—by shoving a gun into the hands of anyone who happened to be standing next to me, who I thought looked like they could do a good job, and I pointed them in the direction of a conflict with no instructions or training, you'd tell me that was a horrible idea. And you'd be right. You'd say there should be regulations. Laws. So what the hell is different when it's us? What makes us exempt? If anything, we're guys with even more dangerous guns."

The analogy doesn't hold. "We have a system," Steve says. "We _had_ a system, and it worked fine."

"Stamford wasn't fine—"

"Stamford was a tragedy," Steve grits out, "but it doesn't mean we should— capitulate to fear. Registration's not going to bring those kids back. Nothing will. All it does is make it harder to do our jobs."

Tony's quiet for a long time. His hand, still splayed across Steve's ribs, is warmer now. He's rubbing his thumb back and forth over Steve's side, a slow, easy motion. Steve wonders if Tony even knows he's doing it.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tony asks, finally. His voice is still low, impassioned, but not angry.

He wouldn't be asking unless he had a good reason. "Go ahead."

"Think about it, and tell me the truth," Tony says. "When did you realize it wasn't going to stop?"

"What?"

Tony's hand lifts off him, a gesture, an abortive movement, before settling back down. His fingers brush against Steve's wrist. "This. All of this." Steve still doesn't understand, and Tony keeps talking. "1940. You enlisted. You went through Project Rebirth. You wanted to defend your country. What did you think you would do, when the war was over? Did you have a plan? A dream? Anything?"

He tries to think back. It was so long ago. Another world. "I suppose," he says. "I suppose I wasn't thinking that far ahead. I'd— I don't know. I'd have gone home." But he knows that's not right. "No, I wouldn't have. I guess I always felt... like I owed it to people. At first, literally. I owe my body to the Army. But even beyond that—I can do things other people can't. I can save people. And I think— I think it would be wrong to stop. I know sometimes I've thought I might, but in the end we all know I'm not going to. I have a duty. I can help people, I can save lives, so wouldn't I be crazy not to?" He shrugs, and he feels Tony's weight shift against him. "Why do you want to know?"

Tony laughs softly. "You didn't ever think about the war ending?"

Steve shrugs again. "I mean, yeah, I suppose I did. At some point in the future it would be over. Didn't know if I'd live to see it." He half-smiles. "Couldn't really have imagined what I did live to see."

"I couldn't have imagined it either." Tony's voice trembles, whispery, like it's a secret. "I'll never forget the day we found you, for as long as I live."

_The best day of my life_ , Tony had said.

"I won't either," Steve says, and the words are tight in his throat. Tony squeezes his hand.

It feels like they could almost make this work. Like they're a puzzle with one piece left, one piece that just needs to be turned, considered from a different angle. They're so close.

"What I meant, though, I guess," Tony says, "is that _I_ thought it would be over." He says it like an admission of guilt. "Not now, not anymore. I can't think that anymore. But those early days? Remember the first time we fought Zemo and the Masters of Evil? I swear to God, I remember standing there, bleeding inside a suit that I couldn't take off, and thinking, well, at least now we'll never have to fight him again. Now that's all done."

Steve can't help but chuckle. "If only."

"But we didn't know." Tony just sounds weary. "He'd be back. Ultron. Kang. Red Skull. The Mandarin. Everyone. Everyone would be back again and again. They just— they never stop. Nothing ever stops. Not for us."

It must have been hard for Tony, Steve realizes. Harder than he'd thought. "Tony, if you want a break—"

Tony shifts and rustles behind him. He's shaking his head. "I'm the guy with the database. If I slip, if I leave, everything and everyone I've been trying to protect—that all goes down with me. And that wasn't my point. My point was that the system we had, we didn't build it intending for it to be permanent."

Steve frowns. "I don't understand."

"Superheroes were made for extraordinary situations. _You_ were made for extraordinary situations. For war. And when you woke up, we gave you another war. And you kept fighting." He can hear Tony swallow. "Our lives, back on our Earth—that's the war. And the war's not stopping. Maybe we thought it would, but we were wrong. There will always be someone to fight. Someone only we can fight. And we have to accept that this is how it is now. The extraordinary has become ordinary. We are a part of the country, a part of the world, and we owe it to them to start acting like it."

"And you think that's Registration?"

"What we had before was good," Tony says. "I will give you that. But it was a patchwork system. We cobbled the Avengers together from nothing because there _was_ nothing, because we needed something. Because there were no rules for people like us. Because without us the Earth wasn't going to get saved. It was vigilante justice. As ethical as we could make it but still, in the end—vigilante justice. And it wasn't intended to work as long as it's been working. We shouldn't be above the law. And this is our chance to build something that works, something that is stable from the ground up, something that isn't dependent on my money or on Xavier's goodwill. Something that will last longer than us. Something transparent and accountable. Something aboveboard. Something where people know exactly who to call when they have a problem."

"I had that hotline—"

Tony laughs. "This is like your hotline, multiplied by a million." Steve thinks maybe he's smiling. "I know it's not how we've always done it. It's different. But different doesn't mean wrong. We built for the short term. We built like it was a war. Like we were going to get to go home. But it is our home, for better or worse. We need to think long term. We need to accept that superheroes are here, and we're going to be here, and we need to integrate ourselves into the rest of society."

It feels like a campaign speech. "But," Steve says, "there's still the government involved in people's lives—"

Tony's breath is warm, still. "I just— I don't know what you're afraid of. It's not some abstract boogeyman. It's _me_. No one else has that list. All you'd have to do is trust me. But I know you'd never want to do that again." He sighs, hot against Steve's neck. "On the ground it's not that different, you know. Even with the changes, with the Initiative, there are still Avengers. And we're doing good. We're making a difference. I wish I could show you the good things."

_Show me_ , Steve doesn't say.

"On the one hand," Steve says, "you're telling me about creating a system, a system that's better than what we had, a way for us to do what we do legally. On the other, you're telling me that your presence in the system is the only thing keeping the government from sending Sentinels after us. That— it doesn't sound stable."

He feels Tony's face against his neck, against his shoulder, as Tony leans in.

"I can't do it alone," Tony whispers. He's not begging. He's not asking. But Steve knows what he means. "I was never supposed to. I should never have done it alone."

That's the difference, Steve knows. When they're together, it's better. He knows this.

He already surrendered. The world's moved on half a year without him. Everything has changed again. Maybe there is no resistance. Maybe it's time to stop fighting his friends. They're only hurting each other. It's not helping anyone. Maybe Tony's got a point.

He still doesn't believe in Registration. But he believes Tony's doing his best.

But he still can't say yes.

"I—" he says, and the words catch in his throat.

"You don't have to say anything," Tony tells him. "You don't have to agree with me. I just wanted you to know. While you were alive, this time."

Steve is silent, contemplating this.

"Thank you," he says.

"No," Tony says. "I'm the one thanking you."

Tony's lips ghost over the back of his neck. It's like a kiss.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/33880/33880_original.png)

* * *

Namor has a watch cap pulled low over his pointed ears, and in the morning sunlight he pages through the notebook Tony gave Stark last night, now covered with more scribbles. He's almost not scowling.

"We have news," Namor says. Standing next to him, Stark gives a weary wave.

All the Invaders look interested; next to Steve, Tony sets down his breakfast Spam and sits up straighter.

"Good news?" Rogers asks.

"Depends on how you define 'good,'" Stark says, with a tired smile. He was clearly up all night translating, if Rogers doesn't even know about it yet. "They have a Gem. And it's nearby. In Italy, even. It's a couple days' hike for us."

Tony leans forward. "Which Gem?"

"I am unsure how to answer that," Namor says. Steve thinks maybe Tony didn't tell them everything he knew about the Infinity Gems, if he didn't know that they have specific properties.

"Well," Tony asks, "did they say what color it was?"

"Red," Namor says, and Tony's eyes fall shut in misery as Steve tries to remember which Gem is which. It seems like Tony knows more than he does; odd, when they've had exactly the same amount of experience with the Infinity Gauntlet.

Tony's gloved fingers clench into fists and then unclench. "The Power Gem."

They're all bad, Steve thinks, but the Power Gem in the hands of the Nazis seems like it could be the worst of the choices. "We ought to get it away from them," Steve says. "Even if it's not the one we need."

Tony looks up at him and blinks. His eyes are a startling deep blue—it feels like Steve is always discovering something, looking at him lately—and something about the way he's sitting is so uncertain that Steve just wants to hold him. But he can't, for so many reasons. "It doesn't matter which we find, as long as we can find one. I can get us a portal starting with any of them."

What? That makes no sense. "I was pretty sure we needed Space and Time to get home." Space for the universe, Time for the time travel. 

"We do," Tony says, "but the Gems have an affinity for each other. Once we have one, it should be easy enough to acquire the rest, if we just believe we can. Especially easy if they're all on Earth."

How does he _know_ that? Steve didn't even know that. Well, he guesses, Tony just knows things like that. He is a genius, after all.

"So you can summon the rest with the Power Gem?"

Tony nods. "Yeah. We just have to hope that they haven't tried it out, and that they don't know what they've got. Which they might not. It didn't seem to me like the Sensational Hydra told them anything about the Gauntlet, really. So maybe it'll stay that way."

"And that brings me to the bad news," Stark says, somberly, "which is that this Gem of yours is currently in the custody of Baron Zemo."

Stark's expression is entirely out of proportion to the name. His face is pale, set into the grim determination that Steve would have expected to be reserved for threats like Ultron or Thanos or Galactus, entities who could destroy the world. Not Zemo. The late Heinrich Zemo had been a lunatic Nazi and second-rate villain with an unfortunate fashion sense who had actually, literally glued his mask to his face. He'd died in an avalanche, fighting Steve and Rick Jones, a long time ago. And his son Helmut, the current Baron Zemo, more or less takes after him, right down to the mask. There's nothing about Zemo, either of them, that should inspire that reaction.

"Zemo?" Tony scoffs. "We can take down Zemo with our eyes closed. No sweat."

It's not exactly how Steve would have put it, but he agrees with the sentiment.

Stark still looks shaken. "He must be different in your universe, because I've— I've met him a few times." He licks his lips and it looks like there's something else he wants to say and isn't sure how. "I've fought against him. You shouldn't underestimate him. He's far from stupid. He's— he's as smart as I am, and—you being me—I think you know I don't say that lightly."

Tony blinks, and his gaze darts over to Rogers. "Huh. He's not one of yours?"

"One of my what?" Rogers asks.

"Tony means," Steve clarifies, "that I fought Zemo a lot during this war, and again after I woke— I mean, I've fought him, and his successor, for years." Dammit, why isn't he telling them about the ice? "He's one of my enemies, I suppose. He fought the Avengers some, sure, but mostly me."

"The Avengers?" Bucky asks, and Steve guesses that no one actually told the Invaders about them by name.

Tony slings an arm over Steve's shoulders, and Steve goes hot and proud at once. "Us," Tony says. "Our team."

Steve's throat chokes with emotion; he can't speak. He wants that to be them. He wants there to be an _us_. Avengers, together. Like they used to be.

"Well, I've never met the fella," Rogers says. "I know Tony has, though. It was in Marvels." 

"I am far too familiar with him," Stark agrees, and there's that same odd, intimidated tone in his voice again. Steve doesn't know what to make of it.

It looks like Rogers doesn't either; he's staring at Stark like he wants to ask, but he doesn't quite dare. Steve would ask, if it were him—but if it were Tony, he thinks Tony would evade the question. It seems like that kind of question.

"Right," Rogers says, finally. "Okay, we have an objective. Zemo and the Power Gem. Tony—" this is directed at Stark— "you radio in, pull whatever strings you have to, get us some intel on where he is and what that's like. Other Tony—" Tony grins a little at the name— "you keep your brain tuned into the radio, listen in, see if you can find out anything more—"

"I can do better than that," Tony offers. "Aerial recon. I can fly there, if you tell me where to look. I guarantee I won't be spotted."

Rogers frowns. "I think right now the radio would be best to start with—"

"I can do both," Tony says. "I can definitely fly and listen to the radio at the same time."

"But you can't transcribe for Namor and fly," Steve points out, because he's the one here with the best understanding of Tony's capabilities, and also he knows that Tony will offer to multitask anything and everything. "Can you remote-pilot this suit?"

Tony looks almost offended to be asked. "You think I'd build a suit I couldn't?"

Steve holds up his hands. "Just checking." But Tony's smiling at him now, so he continues. "So how about you sit here and listen in, and send the suit out by itself?"

Tony nods, and his expression goes faraway for an instant. Steve is the only one who isn't surprised when the Iron Man suit comes walking out of the tent.

"Would you look at that?" Bucky says, awed.

The suit waves.

Tony's gaze is still faraway, but he's grinning. "Don't want Cap telling me off for my manners. Only polite to say hello, isn't it?"

"Hi," says Tony's voice, through the suit's external speakers.

Steve has to admit he enjoys this rare moment of playfulness. It feels like they haven't been like this in years.

"Zemo's base is out by the Mignano Gap," Stark says, and Tony nods in acknowledgment. "Do you need maps?"

"Nah," Tony says, "I can find it."

And then the suit rockets up, and Tony seems to come back to himself. His gaze is a little more present.

"Automated search pattern," he murmurs. "I won't even need to think about it."

That's how the rest of the day goes: intelligence is gathered, and those who aren't gathering intelligence start to pack everything up. They'll leave in the morning, Rogers says. He's consulted the maps, and there's a town not too far from the gap. They can walk all day tomorrow, befriend the locals, hopefully, and get a good night's sleep before the fight.

The suit comes back. Tony comes back with more pages, and Stark and Namor come back with more translations. Steve and Tony gather with their counterparts in Rogers' tent while the rest of the Invaders finish eating and start to bunk down for the night. 

The light from the flashlight flickers as Tony unrolls one of the maps, flips it over, and gets to work on the other side. The map that Tony draws out is neat, like one of his blueprints, and depicts a base built into the side of a mountain. Steve doesn't remember seeing that before. He thinks maybe on their Earth it never existed.

"It's big," Tony says, with a grimace. "And I counted a lot of heat signatures. It's going to be an all-out assault. I don't know where they're keeping the Power Gem, but my guess is that it's pretty deep inside."

Steve taps two parallel lines Tony's drawn. They look a lot like a runway. "What's this?"

"Runway," Tony says, confirming his guess. "Comes right out of the mountain. Probably connects somewhere inside the mountain to the rest of the base. I didn't see any other air traffic, though."

"Hang on." Stark flips through the notebook. "You just gave me something about that. I just translated it. Ha. There." He points to a scribbled sentence. "Zemo's running some kind of experimental flight program. Like rocketry. Unmanned aircraft. I guess it's sort of like what you were doing with your suit, huh?"

The bottom drops out of Steve's stomach. He meets Tony's eyes, and he knows Tony knows exactly what that is. It can't be anything else.

"We're taking that out," Steve says, with sudden vehemence.

Stark looks up and blinks. "Excuse me?"

"We're taking it out," Steve repeats. "That runway. The flight program. All of it."

" _Steve_ ," Tony snaps. His eyes are like the heart of a bright fire, and his face reflects everything he doesn't want to talk about. Everything he wants Steve to lie about.

If they disable this, if they set back Zemo's research, then maybe he doesn't steal that plane. Maybe he doesn't send that plane off, a year a half from now, the plane that sends Steve and Bucky into the ocean.

But Tony doesn't want them to stop it.

"We're destroying it," Steve says, his voice gone harder, "and you know exactly why."

And then Stark's standing between them and holding up his hands, placating. "Whoa," he says. "Hey, there. Settle down. Whatever this is, you two clearly need to talk it out. And then probably get some sleep."

"It's over a day to get there," Rogers says. "We have plenty of time to finalize the assault. No one's deciding anything yet."

"Okay." Steve takes a breath. "Okay. Tony, can I talk to you? In private."

Tony bares his teeth. "Sure."

* * *

Steve practically hauls Tony into their tent by the front of his equipment harness. Tony just blinks at him in the dimness and moves like water, unresisting. His eyes are the clouded dark blue of the sea at night. Something deep. Something secretive.

"Why?"

The question comes out of him low and plaintive. He knows Tony knows exactly what he means.

"We can't tell them." Tony's voice shakes. His eyes flicker shut, and pain crosses his face, cresting and breaking. "We can't stop Zemo. We can't change their future. You know how this kind of thing works. I know you know."

In the half-light—because he's still illuminating the tent with pieces of armor—his face is even more worn by the shadows. Exhausted. But he's steadfast, clinging to this principle. This damned principle. Of all the times for Tony to discover an ideal to live by.

Steve feels his hands curl into fists. "Yes, but this isn't time travel. This is another universe. These people may be versions of us, but this isn't our past. The same rules don't apply. You already told them—"

"I told them about the war, I know. But I didn't tell them how to change it. We can't change anything. We shouldn't. Think about all the universes we've seen where we were Avengers together," Tony counters. "Like the two I told you about last night. In those universes, in any universe where we fight together—you must have gone into the ice. It happens, Steve. It happens to you everywhere, in so many universes, and I— I can't be so arrogant as to think I have the right to decide whether to stop it."

"Then let _me_ decide," Steve says, pleading now. "Let me save them. Please."

"You can't—"

"Tony—"

"Do you really miss the forties that much?" Tony asks. There's something forlorn and desperate in his eyes.

Steve shakes his head. "It's not about that."

"Then what?"

"It's different," Steve insists. "It was different for us." Tony bites his lip, and Steve keeps talking. "When I fell—Bucky was my best friend, and he fell with me. He wasn't around to miss me. My family was long since dead. There was no one who would miss me, not like—" He pauses, because that's not exactly fair. "Well, there were the Invaders, and there was Peggy, but we weren't— it wasn't the same. And then I woke up in the future, and you were there. The Avengers were there. _You_ were there, and I wasn't— I wasn't alone. I was lonely sometimes, sure, but I wasn't ever alone. You were always there for me, and I was so, so glad." He looks at Tony, willing him to understand. "And if in this universe I wake up in the future, you won't be there for me. You can't be. You're already here."

Tony's mouth curves in a bitter smile. "So you'll find someone else. Someone better."

"Goddammit, Tony," Steve says, because he hates more than anything that Tony hates himself. "So you won't do it to spare Bucky everything that happens to him. You won't do it to spare my other self the pain of losing everyone and waking up in the future alone. They're in _love_ , our counterparts. Imagine how your other self is going to feel when—"

"He'll be _fine_ ," Tony snaps back, and the words come out of him in an awful, tortured snarl, a rising yell, a tangle of anger and sadness and grief. "He'll be _fine,_ because I was _fine,_ because sometimes you just _die_ , Steve! Sometimes you just _fucking die_ and we have to keep on going without you!"

There's a frozen silence between them.

Tony stares at him, eyes wide.

And then Tony... breaks.

There's no other word for it.

One second Tony's standing there, and then the next—Tony's knees give way, and he's falling, and he's sobbing as he falls, huge shaking sobs. Steve steps in close and gets his arms around Tony, catching him. He slowly eases them both down until they're sitting on the blankets. He's not sure Tony's even noticed. Tony buries his face at the juncture of Steve's neck and shoulder, seemingly heedless of the edges of the mail of his uniform, and Steve can feel hot tears against his skin. Tony's arms go around him almost hard enough to hurt, like he's trying to pull Steve into himself.

"You died," Tony says, in between sobs, rasping, his voice nearly unrecognizable. "God, you died. You didn't come back. I saw you die. I _killed_ you." He shuts his eyes and cries harder. "I killed you, I killed you."

It's like Tony's been carrying this pain with him, bleeding inside. Has Tony really spent six months believing that? "You didn't kill me," he says.

Tony laughs out a denial. He draws his head back. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot; tears track their way down his cheeks. "Yeah, tell that to the rest of the world. Who put you on those steps, huh?"

"You didn't kill me," Steve repeats. "You said Sharon was brainwashed, right? Suborned by Red Skull, I'm guessing?"

Tony nods jerkily. He's still crying.

"Tony, he could have had Sharon kill me any time he wanted. She could have walked into my apartment and emptied a gun into my skull while I was sleeping. Any time at all. It would have been so easy. He picked the time and place he did because he wanted an audience. You had _nothing_ to do with it. Even if you and I had never fought, he'd still have done it."

"If we'd never fought," Tony says, his face crumpled, tear-stained, "if I'd been fucking paying attention, I'd have seen it. I'd have stopped it. What kind of futurist am I? I saw everything coming, everything except this." He tucks his face against Steve's neck. "It wasn't supposed to be _you_."

_You meant to die_ , Steve thinks, but he can't say it. That was Tony's endgame. That was how Registration was supposed to work. It's exactly the kind of plan Tony comes up with. He'd have been a martyr for his cause.

Steve brings one hand up and plants his palm on Tony's spine, between his shoulder blades, feeling Tony's chest heave as he sobs. "Hey," he says, softly. He's bad at comfort, he's always bad at comfort, but he'll try. He'll try anything for Tony. "Hey, Shellhead," he says, and the noise Tony makes is sort of like a laugh. "You _saved_ me. I'm alive. You brought me back." He strokes circles over Tony's back. "That counts for a lot in my book."

Tony shakes his head, a trembling denial. "This can't be real. You've got to be dead. I saw you before, so you've got to be dead."

"What?" Tony isn't making any sense.

"I hallucinate," Tony says. "Since Extremis." Now is really not the time to tell Tony how he feels about Extremis, but _dear God_ that must be awful. Terrifying. He hates to think of any of that happening to Tony. Tony tilts his head up and smiles, like there's a joke here somewhere. "I see dead people. Just like that damn movie." And then tears well up in his eyes again. "But only dead people. That's how I knew Maya was alive, because I never saw her. But I saw you, I've seen you, so you must be dead. You've got to be dead."

"So maybe I was dead then," Steve allows. "And that was why you saw me. But I'm not dead now. I'm alive, Tony. You brought me back, remember? I'm real. I'm right here. I'm alive."

Hands still behind Tony's back, he pulls his gloves off, lets them drop, and then slides his bare palm up Tony's back, up to his neck, and he brushes his fingertips across Tony's damp cheek. Tony shivers and leans into the touch.

"You feel this?" Steve whispers. "You feel me?"

Tony nods, pushing his face against Steve's fingers again, like he's starving for the touch. "I missed you," he says, brokenly. "I missed you so much."

"I know," Steve says. "I'm here. I'm not leaving."

Steve slides his hand down to Tony's shoulder, down his arm, and tugs the glove off Tony's hand as he goes. Tony's fingers are just a little chilly. He turns Tony's hand over, palm up, and raises it to his lips, placing a kiss in the center of Tony's palm. It's where a repulsor would sit, if Tony were armed. Tony's laid down his weapons. It's just Tony now. All of him is right here.

Steve kisses Tony's hand again, further down, lips against Tony's wrist, and Tony shudders in a way that is very different from misery.

"Steve," Tony says, quietly, and Steve thinks he's never heard his name said that way ever before, fragile hope and wonder mixed together. "Tell me you know what you're doing. Tell me you mean this."

He looks up. Tony's eyes are huge and dark, and although tears still streak his face, he's calm. In control of himself.

_Yes_ , Steve thinks. He wants this. He wants Tony. He wants to be at Tony's side again, the way they always were. And if that means Registration, then he'll take that too. He believes in Tony. He trusts Tony.

"Not sure I know what I'm doing," Steve admits, with a smile. "But I know I mean it. I'm not leaving. I want this."

And then Tony's in his arms, and Tony's kissing him.

It's nothing like he expected. Tony's hesitant, fumbling, and his hands trace over Steve's body like he's not quite sure what he's allowed to do.

"What do you want?" Steve murmurs. "What do you need? You can have it. I'm here. I'm yours."

Tony's fingers find the clasps of Steve's mail shirt unerringly, like he's memorized it for years, just like how Steve knows all the catches in Tony's armor. Tony's fingers brush across bare skin, and Steve gasps at the touch as Tony strokes down his chest, across his stomach, and God, he's got good hands. He's spent years looking at Tony's hands, after all, watching him build and create, watching him shape the world. And he's felt Tony's hands on him before, of course—hugs, a casual arm over his shoulder while they sit on the couch—but this is both something else entirely and something that is entirely the same but on another level. He was expecting it to be different. He was expecting Tony the charmer, Tony the flirt, the Tony he's seen take women to his bed. But this is just Tony. His friend Tony, who's always been here for him, who's always loved him. There's no pretense here. These aren't moves. This is the man behind the mask, the side of himself he almost never lets anyone see.

Steve tries to remember how to breathe. He's getting hard just from the lightest brush of Tony's fingers across his chest, and he knows Tony knows, and that thought— _maybe Tony likes it_ —bounces back and in on itself and Steve shudders with need, the idea that Tony likes this too.

"Can I touch you?" Tony breathes against Steve's mouth, low and tentative, like he thinks Steve might say no. "Can I just touch you? Please?"

Steve smiles. "Anything."

Tony's hands slide down, brushing across Steve's erection and Steve groans and rocks up into the touch, blindly seeking more.

"You're going to _kill_ me," Tony says, softly. He sounds more than a little breathless himself. "You're beautiful, you know that?" From anyone else it might have been flattery; from Tony it's raw, honest truth.

And then Tony's unfastening his pants, very carefully, and Steve can't help but groan again when Tony finally wraps his fingers around him. Tony's not watching what he's doing, which is a little surprising; he'd have thought Tony would be the kind of guy who really enjoys the visuals (and when, he wonders, was he thinking about this?), but Tony's gaze is instead fixed on Steve's face, and his eyes are wide, almost nervous. Hesitant.

"Pretty sure you know how to do this," Steve manages to say, and his voice doesn't even sound like his voice, low and smoky.

Tony smiles, a real smile, softening the lines around his eyes. "Doesn't mean I don't want to savor it," he says, and he tightens his fist around Steve's cock, stroking him in one long, easy glide.

"God, Tony," Steve breathes. "You— that feels really good."

"Good," Tony murmurs, still smiling. "That's the point."

The act isn't new for him, obviously, but it feels somehow as if it is, all of his nerves lighting up in pleasure he'd almost forgotten how to feel. Tony's lingering over him, pulling slow, slick strokes across his cock, working him over with his hands that build wonders, leaving him gasping and breathless and full of desire, incandescent, like he's something else that Tony is shaping, like Tony can see into the heart of him and draw out who he really is.

Tony keeps looking at him, and Steve knows he's watching him, and something about that makes him go hot and needy. Tony's watching him and he likes it, and maybe Tony's thought about this before, maybe Tony's imagined doing exactly this. Steve thrusts up, again and again. Tony seems to know, unerringly, exactly how he likes it, the speed and the pressure and the exact spot to squeeze and he's close, God, he's close—

With effort, he reaches down and pulls Tony's hand away.

"Steve?" Tony's voice is still husky, but full of concern. "Did I do something wrong?"

Steve's panting for breath. "I don't want to come yet. I want to see you. I want to touch you."

He can see that Tony's hard, and he's almost dizzy with lust, with the need to find out how Tony feels, how he tastes. Steve's mouth waters and everything in him goes hot with something that might be shame and something that is definitely desire.

"You don't have to," Tony begins, like he thinks Steve is going to be frightened off. "We can— we can ease into this—"

Steve laughs. "Do I ever ease into anything?"

"No," Tony says, laughing in return, and he starts unsnapping his equipment harness. "It's always the deep end for you."

It's a little awkward, because Tony keeps trying to unzip the suit before he has all of the harness off, and at one point he tangles it around his wrists, but finally it's all off and Steve laughs and pushes Tony onto his back, uniform still on but unzipped most of the way down his front. Tony's under him and is surging up against him, thrusting his hips against Steve's as he slides his tongue into Steve's mouth, hot and slick, and God, he could come from this, he could come just like this.

He kisses Tony's throat, and then moves down Tony's body to kiss the line of skin left exposed by his uniform—his breastbone, his ribs, the quivering muscles of his stomach. Tony's propped himself up on his elbows and is watching him with night-dark eyes, mouth wet and red. Past Tony's navel, an enticing trail of dark hair begins, but it disappears under the edge of the still-zipped end of the uniform. 

Drawn to it like a magnet, Steve slides one fingertip down Tony's skin until he hits fabric. Tony shudders against him.

"You really don't have to," Tony says. His voice is almost unrecognizable, low, gravelly with lust. "God, Steve, you really don't—"

"I want to taste you," Steve says, and he keeps his eyes on Tony's, seeking silent permission, as he ducks his head and mouths at Tony's cock through the fabric of his uniform. "Let me taste you?"

Tony _whimpers_ , honest-to-God whimpers, and Steve takes a dizzying breath as his own cock jerks with echoed need. "Please," Tony breathes. "Please, yes."

He eases the uniform away. And there Tony is, cock thick and hard, dark with blood. And it's not like he's never seen Tony naked, or even naked and hard—because, well, the Avengers' joke is that it's not a real mission unless Tony gets naked somehow during it and combat adrenaline rushes are a hell of a thing—but there's naked and then there's naked with intent, and Steve has a whole lot of intent right now. He looks up and Tony's just watching him, eyes half-lidded. He's biting his lip as he watches. Steve's pulse pounds loud in his head and he is abruptly very, very conscious of the fact that he has never done what he's about to do. But, God, he wants to.

He wonders how he'll feel afterwards. If he'll still be himself, or if the Steve who will— _go on, think it_ —who will suck Tony's cock will be someone else. A new man.

Steve knows a lot about transformative experiences. He thinks maybe Tony does too.

"Can I?" he asks, even though Tony already said _please_. He doesn't quite know what he's asking, but Tony gives him an answer anyway.

Tony smiles. "I've only been waiting for a decade," he murmurs, and Steve wants to laugh. "No hurry. No pressure, either," he adds, softly, and he reaches out to stroke the side of Steve's face. "Only what you want. I mean it."

"I want to," Steve repeats.

And then he finally, finally puts his mouth on Tony.

" _Steve_ ," Tony breathes, like this is everything he's ever dreamed about, everything he always wanted and never believed he could have, and Steve doesn't think he's ever heard anyone say his name like that before in his entire life.

Under his hands, he can feel Tony's hips shaking with the effort not to thrust up. Tony feels good in his mouth, satisfying, and Steve cautiously tries a few licks. He knows what he likes, of course, and he's always liked going down on his partners, and he thinks between those two things he can figure this out. He can do this.

It doesn't taste bad at all, he thinks, as he lets his tongue curve around Tony's cock, as he puts his lips to all the places he knows he likes. Trailing the tip of his tongue across the sensitive spot under the head makes Tony gasp and shudder. When he glances up, Tony's eyes are unfocused, his chest heaving in huge panting breaths, and Steve feels a swell of pride.

He's beginning to enjoy the weight of Tony's cock on his tongue, the way it takes up his entire mouth, and God, he wants more, he wants all of it; he wants Tony to fill him up. So he breathes in and takes Tony in all the way, as far as he can, Tony's cock sliding hot and perfect into his mouth, so deep, just like he wants, and it's so good. He can't exactly breathe, but that's not really a problem for him.

Tony groans, low and needy and amazed, and it's the best sound Steve has heard in his entire life. His cock throbs in response, an echo of lust. And then Tony's hips jerk up hard, like he can't help it, and then even Steve has to back off before he chokes.

He pulls off, and Tony presses shaking fingers to Steve's temple, to Steve's hair, touching him ever so gently, a reassurance.

"Easy," Tony says, softly, carefully, like Steve is the most precious thing in the world. "Take it slow. You can stop if you want."

"I don't want to stop," Steve says, instantly, determined, because this is his first time with Tony and he wants to do it right; he wants to do everything he can for him, to please him, and, okay, a surprisingly large part of him just really wants Tony's cock in his mouth again. "I want to be good for you." He turns his face into Tony's fingers and kisses his palm.

The smile Tony favors him with him with is the most gorgeous he's ever seen, bright and astonished, like he can't figure out what he did to deserve this. "You're so good," he breathes. "You already are. You don't have to try it all right now. We'll have other chances. Plenty of time to do everything we want, yeah?"

Tony wants this again. Tony wants to keep doing this. He knew it was how Tony felt, of course, and it's how Steve feels, but it's different to hear him say it. Steve's imagination tries to fill in endless nights of this, of him and Tony together, and he shudders with desire.

"Yeah," Steve echoes. "But I still want to— I just want to— a little bit more?" He realizes he's licking his lips.

Tony's still smiling. "I'd like to get my mouth on you too, you know, but I'm sure not going to stop you— oh— oh, Steve—"

Steve takes Tony's cock into his mouth again, and Tony's words break off into gasps and the fractured sounds of Steve's name.

When he glances up, Tony is smiling at him, a smile that he's never seen before, or that he's only seen the barest glimpses of. Tony's happy, utterly and completely happy, at peace. Steve thinks it might be the best thing he's ever seen in his life. He wants Tony to look like that every day.

Maybe this is how they were always supposed to be. Maybe they were always meant to end up here. Maybe every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every year was marking time until this moment. Maybe every glance, every touch, every smile, every laugh all led to this, a bright line from the day Steve opened his eyes and Tony welcomed him to the future right down to this. Maybe they can have this.

Tony throws his head back and he's beautiful, a study in contrasts, pale skin and dark uniform, light and shadow, chiaroscuro, raw and real and ecstatic. Tony moans, softly. He made Tony sound like that. Steve's distantly aware that he's hard too, he's throbbing with need, because of this. Because of Tony.

He gets an easy rhythm going, one spit-slick hand and his mouth, and he lets Tony thrust up into his mouth a little more, and God, he can picture Tony in him in other ways, Tony spreading him open and sliding in, and it's nothing he's ever thought of before and the most arousing thing he's ever thought of, and Tony is close, and God, he's going to make Tony come—

"Come up here and kiss me," Tony rasps, and then he's hauling Steve up and they're kissing and kissing, messy and wet and Tony's tongue is licking into his mouth, and Tony is thrusting up against him, sliding them together, hot and slick. They fit, they fit perfectly, Tony's cock is hot against his, and Tony groans into his mouth with every thrust, his hips shuddering up. One of Tony's hands curves across his ass, holding him in place, rocking them together. He imagines Tony's hand sliding lower, his fingers sliding down, down, in—

Steve gasps and comes hard, shaking, distantly aware that Tony is still pressing more and more uncoordinated kisses to his face. When he opens his eyes, Tony's eyes fall shut, and Tony cries out, low and hoarse, and comes.

Eventually Tony opens his eyes, and Steve smiles and kisses him again, lightly.

He doesn't feel different. He thought maybe it would change him, transform him. But he's still himself. It's just that now he has Tony with him. He's always had Tony with him, but this... this is new. And good. Definitely good.

"Hi," Tony says and he rolls them both over. His voice is warm with affection. Soft. Tender. Loving. "How are you doing?"

Steve fumbles for his belt and presents Tony with a handkerchief from one of his pouches. "I'm great." He smiles. "My first time doing that. You'll have to let me know how it was."

"You were perfect," Tony says, all unguarded honesty, as he wipes them clean and then pulls the blankets up over both of them. "My first time doing that sober," he says, in a voice almost too low for Steve to hear.

God. He knows there are large chunks of his past that Tony doesn't like to talk about but that— that really doesn't sound good. 

"Sorry," Tony says, stricken, starting to pull away. "Too much information? Yeah, that was— that was probably too much—"

"Not too much." He reaches out and draws Tony back down to him. "If you ever want to talk about it—"

Tony shakes his head. "Not much to say. I was young and stupid," he says, "with a weakness for, well, guys who looked like Captain America. Didn't end up with the right one, you know?" He snorts. "All of the looks, none of the ethics." Steve's pretty sure he can guess who that is. He has heard about Tiberius Stone, after all.

Steve's arms tighten around him. "I humbly offer myself."

Tony chuckles. "So kind of you."

"I try," he says, and then his throat closes up, because he's trying, he's trying, he wants this. He wants them to be together. He knows what he needs to say. He takes a breath. "Tony," he says. "Tell me about Registration. Tell me about the world."

Tony's eyes go wide. "You're kidding."

"I wouldn't joke about this." Steve takes a shaking breath. "I said I wasn't leaving, and I meant it. Tell me."

And Tony talks. Tony tells him about Carol and her Avengers, about the Fifty-State Initiative, about the new teams, about all the training. Everyone's getting what they need, he says. Tony tells him about how they still work together, sometimes, the unregistered ones. No penalties. No capekillers. Tony tells him about Bucky, wearing the shield, running ops with Sam and Natasha. Tony tells him about how he stopped the Mandarin. Tony tells him about how he's running SHIELD. He tells him about the armor he's made for agents, and child care. He tells him about suggestion boxes. He's going to do this right. He says there were problems; he says he won't lie, and of course there were problems. He says he needs Steve, that he always needed Steve, that they can do this right if they do this together. He says Steve brings out the best in him, in everyone.

"I wanted you to be proud of me," he says, and his voice catches, and Steve holds him tight.

When Steve drifts off to sleep, Tony's still talking, sketching out a world. Their home.

* * *

When he wakes, Tony has his head pillowed on his shoulder. His hair's in his face again, and he's breathing lightly. His eyes are shut but Steve's positive he's only pretending to be asleep. So he reaches out and pushes Tony's hair out of his face. Tony makes a pleased humming noise and pushes into Steve's hand. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times; in the morning light, his eyes are the bluest Steve's ever seen them. It's a nice view. He'd like to wake up to it again. As often as possible.

"Any regrets?" Tony murmurs. "Second thoughts?"

"Only that I want to do it again," Steve says.

Tony's smile is brilliant. "Pretty sure that's the first thought, repeated."

"So it is." Steve leans and kisses him again, and Tony returns the kiss, with a growing heat behind it.

"Okay," Tony says, breaking off. "Okay. You're wonderful, and I am the luckiest man in the multiverse, and I'll take that as a yes, you'd like this to continue. But I think now we're needed elsewhere." He finishes zipping up his SHIELD uniform and starts the hunt for his gloves and equipment harness as Steve puts his own uniform back on and hands Tony his shoulder holster.

At least Steve's had a lot of practice getting other people in and out of SHIELD uniforms.

"We still didn't come to a decision about Zemo," Steve reminds him.

Tony sighs. "We can take out his flight program now, but it might not do anything, you know? If he's advanced enough to be running test flights now, two years before you fall, it's possible that someone's supposed to take out this base and set him back in the first place, and that would put him right on schedule later. Maybe that's what makes him decide he needs to steal that experimental plane."

"Or it might stop him entirely."

Tony clips the harness across his chest and looks at Steve in silence for a few seconds. Steve can see the thoughts pass across his face, tipping slowly into acceptance. "Yes. Okay. We do it. But we're not telling them why."

"Deal," Steve says, and he grins.

They can do this. They can compromise. This will work. They'll work it out.

When they step outside to get breakfast, Stark smirks at them like he knows what they were up to. Steve goes hot, but Tony smirks right back, and Steve guesses that that's all anyone needs to say on the matter.

"All right," Rogers says, as Steve passes Tony the instant coffee out of his ration without Tony even asking. "We eat, we break camp, we pack up, we start walking. We'll stop in a town, ideally, for the night, and we'll finalize the operation plans for next morning. Questions?"

"The locals are friendlies?" Tony asks Steve, low, looking abashed.

"They should be," Steve tells him. "This is German-held territory, but Mussolini will have surrendered a few months back. Naples liberated itself relatively recently. We ought to be able to find someone who will be nice to us."

This is why Tony needed him, he realizes. Tony didn't know this. Tony didn't live it.

"Questions?" Rogers repeats, looking at Tony.

"Nope," Tony says. "I'm good."

Stark looks uncomfortable, shifting where he stands, like there's something he wants to say, but he says nothing.

"Okay, then," Rogers says. "Come on, Invaders. And extra people."

* * *

Marching is about as arduous as Steve remembers. The pack is a little less heavy; he guesses that's because the team's gear is split up among more people. Tony is next to him, looking a little overburdened—he's got the armor case in addition to everything else, after all—and Steve hopes he's all right. He doesn't look exactly like he's in peak condition.

"You doing okay?" he asks, when they stop for a water break.

Tony nods as he tips the canteen into his mouth and passes it back to Steve. "I'm stronger than I look, these days." His eyes fall shut. "It's just been a rough year, you know?"

"I can imagine," Steve says, and he nudges the armor case. "You could have flown."

"I worked it out," Tony tells him. "By the time I move everyone and their gear it's actually about as fast to walk it. Also I'm not exactly inconspicuous, in the suit, and I'd rather not advertise we're coming to our friend the baron."

"Oh," Steve returns, "and two Captains America are inconspicuous?"

Tony laughs. "Well, at least you wouldn't be flying. I'm sure whoever's left at Monte Cassino has let him know we're in the area, but as of right now he doesn't know we're coming for him, and I'd like to keep it that way for as long as possible."

"You outclass all their tech," Steve points out. "Don't tell me you don't."

"I don't outclass the Power Gem," Tony says, "so I'd rather not be anticipated."

Again he says it instantly, as if of course he _knows_ that. It's still a little strange.

"I'll take your word for it," Steve says.

Tony's still beautiful, though, Steve thinks, admiring Tony's profile in the gray winter sunlight, and Tony grins at him like he knows just what Steve's thinking. He probably does.

"Hey," Bucky calls out, from farther up the rocky trail. "We're moving!"

He puts the conversation out of his mind, and starts to map out tactics as he picks up his pack and falls in line. It will be interesting to see what his other self comes up with.

In the afternoon they stop; there's a little town not too far away. Steve doesn't recognize it, and he guesses he's never been here.

"Here's where we stop," Rogers says. "And we try to make friends." He looks speculatively at all of them and rubs his chin. "All right. Which of you speaks the best Italian and can charm someone out of a room or two?"

Steve doesn't volunteer, because his Italian knowledge consists of five different ways for telling people to put their guns down and a handful of phrases that all prominently feature the word _cazzo_ , which is entirely the opposite of charming and also entirely to be expected if one has learned the language from soldiers. And if his counterpart also learned Italian during the war, Steve suspects he's in about the same straits. Namor—this Namor—probably knows Italian, for whatever spycraft needs he has, but Steve will grant that Namor is not especially personable.

Steve's a little surprised when Tony, standing next to him, raises a hand. He knows Tony's mother was Italian—but Tony's never really talked about her, not in all the years he's known him. And then Tony starts laughing, delighted, because the other hand in the air belongs to Stark.

They look at each other, grinning.

"You—" Tony begins.

Stark laughs. "That figures, doesn't it?"

"Well, we can't send _both_ of you," Rogers says. "There's an obvious problem there."

Stark sidles up to Tony and throws an arm over his shoulder, still grinning. "Non c'è problema! È mio fratello!" Stark announces, cheerfully, in what sounds to Steve like perfect Italian.

Rogers rolls his eyes.

"Il mio gemello," Tony adds. Steve's never heard Tony speak Italian before, not that he can recall, but Tony sounds just as fluent.

"Oh, come on," Steve says, because _really_?

"People do actually have twin brothers, you know," Tony says. "It's the two of you who might raise some red flags, but hopefully once we've found somewhere to stay we can get you in without anyone looking too closely at the Captains America."

Steve turns to Stark. "Are you the kind of famous where the people you meet would know enough about you to know you don't have a twin brother?"

Stark raises his eyebrows. "Here?" he asks, incredulously, and Steve guesses that's a no. Stark glances over at Tony, impressed. "How famous are _you_?"

"At least that famous," Tony acknowledges.

Stark whistles. "Wow."

Rogers looks like he's not particularly happy—and Steve agrees—but there are no better choices forthcoming. "Fine. Go. Both of you. Be charming."

Stark waggles his eyebrows and grins again. "Grazie mille, mio capitano."

"And Tony," Steve adds, "at least borrow a coat and give me the gun that doesn't belong in this decade. No use making people wonder about SHIELD."

Tony passes him the SHIELD-issue pulse gun and then scrounges up a heavy woolen coat from one of the packs. The boots will still mark him out, but the coat covers most of the SHIELD uniform, so he only looks a little odd, as opposed to clearly different from everyone.

Tony grins at him. "Do I pass inspection, Cap?"

Steve grins. "Sure. Looking good."

Tony smiles again, at the compliment, and he taps the side of his head. "Remember, you've got comms. I'll let you know when we're on the way back. Hang onto the armor for me."

And then they head off. Steve watches them leave. He's still not really sure what to make of two Tonys; he's pretty sure Tony's first comment on the matter would have been an obscene suggestion.

"Hell of a thing, seeing two of him," Rogers says, quietly, from next to him.

Steve laughs. "You can say that again."

Rogers eases himself down until he's sitting on one of the packs. "Did you two come to a conclusion about Zemo's operation last night?"

_We came to all sorts of conclusions_ , Steve thinks.

"Yeah," Steve says, and he wishes he could tell him about the fall. But this is the deal. They'll do what they can. "We're taking it all."

* * *

Steve's going through the contents of his belt pouches when the comm in his ear beeps once.

"Hey, handsome," Tony's voice says in his ear, and Steve feels his face heat up.

" _Tony_ ," he says, strangled.

"What?" Tony says, cheerfully unrepentant. "This is a private line. Only you can hear me. I'm not even talking aloud. I can call you anything I like. I can tell you how much I liked it last night when you—"

"Tony."

He can hear the sigh. "Fine. Anyway. We're coming back. Couldn't get a house. Got a barn, though."

"A barn?"

"It's got a lovely hayloft," Tony says, like this is a selling point. Steve supposes it's better than sleeping on the ground.

"All right," Steve says. "We'll start walking and meet you halfway. We can grab your packs for you."

"You super-soldiers," Tony says, and he can tell Tony's smiling. "You're all show-offs."

"You know it," Steve returns, grinning, and he goes to tell the team.

* * *

The barn's a little drafty, but it's huge. There's plenty of room for them to spread out, and no one even has to bunk down with the sheep, who are confined to one small area near the doors. The hayloft is at the end, and Tony's right that it looks nice and spacious. There are a couple blankets up there, but if there's a ladder there it's been pulled up.

"Earth-616 calls dibs on the hayloft!" Tony says, grinning.

Tony's kneeling down and unlacing his SHIELD boots, and at some point his gloves came off—and Steve doesn't quite realize what's happening until the armor case clicks open and Tony's half a foot taller than him, in gauntlets and jet boots, and wrapping an arm around Steve's waist.

Steve laughs and leans into Tony and lets him carry him up. It's hardly at combat speed, but it's a rush nonetheless. He's always liked flying with Tony.

"I missed this," Tony murmurs in his ear, as he sets them down onto creaking boards, and his arms tighten around Steve. "I never thought I'd get to—"

"I know," Steve says, and he squeezes Tony right back.

Tony looks down at him, and God, Steve could just kiss him right here. He doesn't even care who's watching—

"Now come back down, you two," Rogers calls up. "We have an assault to plan."

The maps are unrolled, and the Invaders gather around.

"All right," Rogers says. "It's big, and it's going to be messy, but we can do this." He taps three points: the outer walls; the runway; the center of the main building, embedded in the mountain. "Three main areas: the outer defenses, the flight program, and the probable location of the Power Gem, thanks to the readings you acquired." He looks up at Steve and Tony. "Tell me how to make use of you."

Tony speaks first. "My usual role in a mission like this would be to run aerial backup. Possibly comms coordination, these days, now that it's all in my head. Definitely run pick-up for the non-fliers." He grimaces a bit. "I don't think any of that will be useful. There are no team comms to worry about here. I suspect there will be very little ground-to-air weaponry. And, no offense, no one except Steve has the practice to take advantage of using me to cross the area of engagement."

"None taken," Rogers says. "That was the worst carnival ride I've been on."

Steve reaches out and taps the middle of the map. "The fight to the Gem is going to be the hardest of the three. And it's going to be me and Tony. We're the strongest, and we have the most experience at this. I may not have my shield, but I can still fight." He doesn't want guns, but he pushes that thought away for another time. "And Tony is both the best-protected and best-armed of any of us. Besides, he's the one who actually needs his hands on the Gem."

"I agree," Tony says, but there's something reluctant in his face. Not about him going, because that wasn't when his expression changed. He's hesitant about Steve.

Well, that's new. Steve opens his mouth to ask—

"I'm going too," Stark says, and Rogers turns to stare at him. "What? I know Zemo. And I'm not afraid of a firefight."

"I don't like this," Rogers states, baldly, and Steve silently agrees. That base is big, and the direct assault on the Power Gem is a push he doesn't want to make with baseline humans if he has any choice in the matter. Of the seven of them, there are three superhumans, if he's counting what Extremis did to Tony, and the best decision is to put them where the fight is going to be the absolute worst. This wouldn't have been as much of a problem with his Invaders, since all but one of them had been superhuman—and, well, even though Bucky was and is baseline human, Bucky could take care of himself. Stark doesn't even have armor. Steve definitely doesn't want to send Stark in with them. Not up against a goddamn Infinity Gem. 

Not his universe, he reminds himself. Not his call.

Stark's chin tilts up. "You want Zemo? You need me. They don't know Zemo. _You_ don't know Zemo. I do."

They're staring each other down. Steve can't count the number of times he and Tony have done this. It is deeply strange watching this happen to other people. And Steve watches his counterpart give in, backing down.

"Fine," Rogers says, but his face is more than a little sour.

"We'll keep you covered," Tony says. "No worries."

Rogers taps the runway. "Bucky and I will lay waste to Zemo's test flight program."

Bucky grins, eyes bright behind his mask. "Sounds good to me, Cap."

God, Steve thinks, of all the coincidences. Maybe it's different in this universe. Maybe _now_ is when they go down.

He should say something. He should.

He can't.

"I've got grenades," Tony offers. "Party favors for all and sundry. And if you need something built, let me know."

"What kind of something?" Stark asks.

The smile is mirthless. "In my past life I was a weapons designer."

Stark raises an eyebrow. "Any good?" 

"Frighteningly," Tony says, no emotion on his face, and Steve can only agree with that.

Rogers taps the outer walls. "Torch, Toro, Namor—you'll stay outside. Take down as much as you can. Focus on creating general chaos. Soften them up. Keep our exit open for us."

Namor grins a devilish grin.

"Can do, Cap," Toro says, practically bouncing.

Torch looks almost inhumanly calm, as if he were still an android—but Tony said this one wasn't. "Are we cleared to try the napalm?"

"Sure," Rogers says. "Go for it."

Torch grins wide, definitely human now. "This will be interesting."

And then Rogers turns to Tony. "I have to ask. What's your backup plan if Zemo has your Power Gem and he knows what it is?"

Tony shrugs. "Prayer?" he offers, and Steve knows it's Tony's attempt at humor because Tony's an atheist through and through, despite having fought shoulder to shoulder with a god for a decade. "Seriously, though—even if he knows it does something, he won't know the full extent of what the Gem is capable of. I can be better. I _am_ better."

Rogers' gaze meets Steve's, like he's using Steve to judge whether Tony is serious. Whether Tony can do this.

"I trust him with my life," Steve says softly, and Tony smiles a very little smile.

"Thanks, Winghead."

"Any time."

"Then we're good to go," Rogers says. "Everybody get some sleep. Enjoy your hayloft, you two. Up at 0600."

The meeting breaks up, and the team starts to get their bedrolls out. Tony flies their packs up, and then he comes back for Steve.

"I'm the only one who likes flying with you?"

Tony nods and lets the gauntlets and boots drop off; the undersuit melts away on his hands, but he keeps it on his feet. The contrast is odd.

"Their loss," Steve says, and Tony grins.

There are enough blankets for them to spread a few out under them; with the addition of the bedrolls, it's considerably warmer than they've been for the previous nights. Steve's a little surprised when Tony turns on his side and cuddles up against him again, but he isn't exactly going to complain. Tony's warm, and it's nice to feel... protected. It's usually on him to take care of people, and of course he likes making sure the people he loves are taken care of, but sometimes it's just nice to relax. To be the one cared for.

"Hey," Tony whispers, and his hand slides to Steve's hip, the barest suggestion. "I could...?"

Steve shakes his head. "Too much of an audience for me," he says. "And that's a no on the threesome," he adds, just to see what Tony will say.

Tony chuckles, low and dirty, and Steve kind of likes it. A lot. "I am _appalled_ that you would think I would think of such a thing. Why, I'd say it says more about you than me." He laughs again. " _Foursome_ ," he whispers. "Dream big."

"Still no," he says, and he's pretty sure Tony's pretending to pout. "Besides, we're busy."

"Yeah." Tony sighs a contemplative sigh. "I cannot wait to go home. Go home, eat something that isn't Spam, and sleep in a real bed."

"Mmm," Steve agrees. "And am I in this bed with you?"

Tony's silent for a few seconds, suddenly serious. "Would you like to be?"

Steve reaches back and squeezes Tony's hand. "Tony," he says, "I moved in with you a decade ago, the first time you asked, two days after I met you. Pretty sure the answer's still yes."

Tony kisses the back of Steve's neck, hot and shivery.

"You know you're going to get so much shit for this," Tony says, like it's a neutral observation. "For coming out. For being with me. _Especially_ for me. I don't think you know how much people hate me these days."

"I absolutely do not care," Steve says, fiercely. "You're worth it. I will defend you to all comers. And I'm pretty sure you get a choice about being out too, you know."

"You think I'm gonna keep you a secret?"

"I think you keep a hell of a lot of secrets," Steve tells him, and Tony sighs.

"It happens," Tony says. "But, yeah—I'm for telling people. I'd really rather that you not be one of those secrets."

Steve smiles a little. "If we do this, Tony—if we do this, don't keep things from me. No secrets. No lies. We do this right. You tell me everything, even if you think I'll say no or I won't believe you or I'll be mad. You tell me first. And I'll—" he swallows hard— "I'll try my best to not let my temper get the better of me. I'll think about things. Everything you tell me. Even if I am mad, I'll think about them. And I won't keep things from you. We trust each other. Okay? Fair?"

Tony is still against him, motionless. "Fair." He laughs a very small laugh. "Terrifying, but fair. I suppose I've earned that one a lot."

This is going to work out, Steve thinks. This had better work out. He's already got his entire soul invested in it.

Steve remembers the look on Tony's face when they were planning the mission. "All right. Then tell me why you don't want me in the fight tomorrow, huh?"

Tony's breath against Steve's neck is a warm and heavy sigh. "You noticed."

"I know you."

Tony sighs. "It's— it's irrational. It's stupid. It's just that you're not— you're not bulletproof, as I think we both know intimately." His breath goes ragged.

This time Steve turns over, because Tony didn't say he couldn't. He's almost too close to focus on, barely visible in the dark. Steve thinks it's too dark for regular humans to see anything. He thinks Tony can probably see him just fine.

"Hey." He takes Tony's hand in his and squeezes Tony's fingers. "I'm alive, okay? I'm alive. This is just Zemo. Think of the dozens of times we've fought him. Hell, he was, what, the third villain I ever took down with the Avengers? We can do this. We have done this."

"I just got you back," Tony says, low and anguished. "I can't lose you."

"You won't."

He rubs his thumb over Tony's fingertips. The familiar calluses are still there, but the scars he used to have are gone. Steve hadn't realized until now that he'd had them mapped out. Tony sighs.

"You know," Tony says, like they've been having another conversation entirely, "the amount of information they could torture out of me to help their own weapons development is vast." He says it like a dry observation, and Steve blinks because first, _what the hell_ , and second, it isn't going to happen.

"So they won't catch you," Steve says, and something about Tony is terrifyingly fragile, and he doesn't know what to do. "You have a healing factor now. You're going in with me. And you have better tech than anyone on this entire planet." He runs his fingers over the back of Tony's hand, up his arm, to his face. "And I know you. You're brave and you're strong and you don't break. You're Iron Man. I know _for a fact_ that when people tell you to build weapons for them, you tell them no."

Tony smiles an awful, sad smile. "Steve, if they put a gun to your head, I will give them everything they could ever want. I'm already broken."

_Oh, God, no_ , he thinks, and he holds Tony close.

"You shouldn't be in the field." If it were any mission, any other mission, he'd scratch Tony and run it all himself—but there are no other choices.

"Yeah, well," Tony says. "SHIELD therapy is not something anyone trusts right now, and I can't retire." There's the all-too-usual self-loathing undercurrent in his tone, mixed with something odd, something open and vulnerable. "But, hey, now you know just how fucked up I am."

"Not fucked up," Steve says, as gently as he can. "But you need a break."

Tony laughs. "I don't get those. Anything else you want to know?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "How the heck do you know so much about the Infinity Gauntlet?"

He's expecting some kind of easy answer, maybe an explanation that Tony synthesized a bunch of existing information for the Avengers files—or, hell, maybe Thanos swung by Earth again while Steve was dead—but instead Tony jumps, then goes rigid against him, eyes wide and terrified.

Oh, hell.

"Tony?" he asks, very carefully. "What's going on?"

Tony shuts his eyes in misery. "I can't tell you. I _can't_. I know, I just said— but they'll kill me. And then you'll kill me." His breaths rasp, too fast. "Actually, you might kill me first."

"I won't kill you," Steve assures him. He has no idea what any of this means.

"We swore we wouldn't talk," Tony says, and Steve's beginning to get an unpleasant feeling about this.

"Tony?"

Tony's eyes are still screwed shut. "I have the Reality Gem."

"You _what_?" Of all the answers he could have given, Steve sure wasn't expecting that. "It's on Earth?"

Tony nods. He's shaking. "It's safe. They're all— they're all on Earth. We have them." And then the words are spilling out of him. "We found them all. Reed had the Gauntlet and tried to wish the Gems out of existence, because no one should have them, but it didn't work. The Watcher saw us. Not allowed, apparently. So we split them, because we couldn't— it was the best we could come up with. We're not going to use them. Never going to use them. Oh God, they're going to kill me for telling you."

Steve takes one breath. Two. He's not going to be mad. He's going to think about this. "Who has them?"

Tony's laugh is half-hysterical. "Me. Reed. Xavier. Strange. Black Bolt. Namor."

Steve tries to think. "When did this happen?" It makes sense that they'd pick someone from every faction of superhumans, but why is it a secret? Why didn't they keep the rest of the teams in the loop? "Why them?"

"It happened a while back." Tony tries to turn his face away. "We deal with this kind of thing, the six of us. We've been... meeting up. Secretly. Since the Kree/Skrull War."

" _Jesus Christ_ , Tony," Steve says, shocked, loudly enough that someone on the floor grumbles a complaint. "That was _years ago_." They've been meeting secretly for _years_? Behind everyone's backs? Behind _his_ back? Collecting Infinity Gems? He goes hot, and suddenly he can't see through the haze of anger—

This, this is why they have trust issues, right here—

"Yeah," Tony says. "It was." 

His face is blank, braced, like he expects Steve to punch him, like he thinks Steve's first move is going to be to hurt him, and Steve just stops in absolute horror, because he can't, he can't, he can't do that to Tony.

That's not who he's going to be. He's better than this.

"Okay." He takes a breath. "I'm listening. Talk to me."

Tony looks at him like he can't believe Steve isn't punching him, and Steve wants to be sick. "It was my idea," Tony says. "So if you want to blame anyone, blame me. I had the idea that the war would have gone better if we'd shared information with each other. If we'd had more transparency."

"This sounds like the opposite of transparency," Steve points out.

Tony laughs harshly. "Yeah, well. It was supposed to be, but none of them would go for it. I wanted a public delegation. But they said no. They said there were too many people on our teams that the public wouldn't approve of. Too many convicted criminals and other shady characters. They didn't trust our team members." He snorts. "We barely trusted each other. Mostly Namor on that one, actually. He said no teams, no family."

"So why not just go home?"

"Because we needed something," Tony says. "We needed a coalition. And even though we implemented it incredibly badly, it was better than nothing. So we'd meet, when we needed to discuss things that were bigger than just one group." He frowns contemplatively. "Namor tried to drown me once. Good times."

Steve's beginning to see why Tony doesn't get along with Namor.

"What did you tell them about the SHRA?"

Tony sighs. "I told them the future. I told them that something like Stamford would happen. It hadn't happened yet; it was about to. I told them that we should come out as a united front of superheroes, the public face of superpowers, the way we should have when we started meeting, and we should back the SHRA before SHIELD brought the capekillers down on us all. What do you think I told them?"

"No, huh?"

"Well." Tony shrugs. "Reed was with me. Anyway," he says, "we found the Gems a while before that. A few years ago. But that's— that's how I know so much about them. Since you asked. Never used it, other than the Gauntlet here. Never going to. I swear."

Steve reaches out and runs his fingers through Tony's hair, and Tony shudders and buries his face against Steve's neck.

"Thank you," Steve says, and Tony sighs, hot against his throat. "Thank you, Tony."

Tony trusts him. Tony _trusts_ him.

"This is going to work out, isn't it?" Tony murmurs, and Steve knows he's not asking about Zemo. "We can do this."

"You better believe I'm giving it my best shot," Steve says. "I'm not giving up on you. And I'll punch Namor for you if you want."

"Ha," Tony says. "No." And then he lifts his head, meeting Steve's gaze. "Come back with me. Be an Avenger. Be Captain America."

"I'm not taking the shield from Bucky," Steve says, "and I'm not taking the team from Carol. But I'll come back."

His voice echoes, a promise made.

"Oh God," Tony asks, and his voice is suddenly all gleeful delight, "will you be Nomad again? For me? Please? With the outfit?"

"You really liked the outfit that much?" Steve asks, bewildered. He remembers Tony had complimented him on it, but he'd thought Tony was just being polite.

"Uh," Tony says, hesitantly, and is he _blushing_? "I might have enjoyed certain elements of it rather a lot."

Oh. _Oh_. Steve smiles. "I'll see what I can do."

Tony smiles back, fuzzy-edged, and kisses him once more. He's drifting off. His eyes are falling shut.

He's smiling in his sleep.

* * *

They're up. They're packed.

They're handing out guns.

Clearly operating on the theory that his SHIELD equipment will do him no good in the suit, Tony's passing out grenades—gas, thermite, fragmentation—like the world's most murderous Santa Claus. His face is grim. He hands Steve the half-empty equipment belt, still full of ammunition, and his SHIELD-issue handgun, still in the shoulder holster.

"I can't give you the pulse gun," Tony says. "It's locked to me." He jerks a thumb at Stark, who is turning the pulse gun over and over, enthralled. "Luckily, someone else can use it."

Steve looks down at the gun in his own hands. It's not as though he can't use them. He's an excellent shot, of course; he just... it's not him. He doesn't do this. But there's only one shield, and he can't very well take that away from his counterpart.

"The new Captain America uses guns," Tony says, and out of the corner of his eye Steve watches Bucky handle his rifle.

"I—" Steve begins, and he doesn't even know how to finish the sentence.

And then Tony looks up at him and half-smiles. "Come here," he murmurs, and he grabs Steve by the arm and tugs him along to the far corner, where his armor case is. "I've got a present for you, but you have to promise not to make fun of me, okay?"

Steve blinks, confused, as Tony kneels down and opens the case. Tony's not suited up yet, so the case is full, and he's lifting out the armor plates in double handfuls, setting them on the floor.

"Why in the world would I make fun of you?"

"Because I'm a sentimental bastard," Tony says, his voice rough, and he lifts away the empty molded padding to reveal something flat and red underneath, between the case and the padding. There's something hidden there. Something secret. Tony picks it up and holds it out. Red leather shines.

It's one of his gloves, Steve realizes. It's not just plain leather, though; it looks reinforced all up the arm, and then Steve realizes _exactly_ what it is. His jaw drops.

"I gave the energy shield away," he says, uncertainly. "Tony, how—"

"I made it," Tony says, looking down, not meeting his eyes. "I gave Bucky the shield, all right, but I couldn't— I had to— I missed you, okay? And I just— then I could have it with me."

Steve glances back. The Invaders are all occupied with their weapons. He steps in, quickly, tips Tony's chin up, and kisses him.

Tony makes a surprised noise and kisses him back, for just a second, before stepping away.

"You're the best man I've ever known," Steve says, low and fierce. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"It's not the fanciest of your energy shields," Tony says, awkwardly. "So it's only a shield. No shapes, no projections, no throwing. Just blocking. I'm sorry—"

"Are you kidding me?" Steve says. "It's _perfect_."

He flips the shield on, and the transparent vibranium matrix flares bright. His shield. He has his shield back.

The light draws the attention of the Invaders, who turn around and look at him, surprised. Awed, maybe. It's an impressive sight. Tony made this, Steve thinks, and something inside him glows warm. Tony made this for him. Tony gave him a shield. His shield.

Steve smiles and lifts the shield up. "I'm ready."

* * *

Zemo's fortress is above them on the mountainside. They're at the edge of the nearest forest, the last remaining bit of cover. The assault begins here.

Rogers looks at the Invaders assembled around him, their faces set in determination. As Steve watches him, he slides the shield off his back and onto his arm, holding it high.

" _Okay, Axis, here we come!_ "

The other Invaders echo the shout. Their battle cry. Steve hasn't heard that in years.

As one they turn and begin to run. They're not far from open ground now.

Tony's standing next to Steve. He's armored up, but the faceplate is still flipped back. He's not moving.

Then Tony turns and looks at him, and Steve watches the edges of Tony's lips quiver, as he tries to hold back laughter.

"God," Tony says. "I knew that was your battle cry, but—" he inhales hard, mouth still quivering— "somehow I didn't _know_ it was your battle cry until right now, you know?"

"Yeah," Steve says, and now he's chuckling. "Actual battle cry, I swear. You don't like it?"

"Eh." Tony's shrug is huge, in the armor. "Could use some work. It has a certain quaint charm, though."

He's still not moving.

"Tony?" Steve asks. "Aren't you moving out?"

"I was waiting for a couple of words first."

Tony looks at him, and his eyes are suddenly wide and nervous, his face drawn with tension. There's a tentative kind of hope in his voice, like there's something he wants so badly, something he hungers for, something he's almost afraid to believe in.

And then Steve knows exactly what Tony means. What he needs to hear.

"Avengers," Steve says, softly. "Assemble."

Tony smiles at him. "Yeah," he says. "Just like that. I missed that. I missed that so much."

Steve smiles back. He reaches out one gloved finger and traces a line down Tony's cheekbone, and then he flips Tony's faceplate down for him. The eyeslits glow bright. Steve switches his shield on. They're ready.

"Come on, Shellhead," he tells him. "Let's save the world."

They run together, and they burst out into the light.


	4. Tony Stark, Earth-90214

This is going to make one hell of a story someday.

Tony just hopes he'll be alive to tell it.

They're right outside the walls of the fortress. Tony's pressed up against the stone, back to the wall, ducking down, with a Steve Rogers from another universe covering him, holding a glowing shield made of light over both their heads. Unlike Cap's usual vibranium shield, this one is transparent, and Tony can watch the bullets from above ping off of the shimmering red, white, and blue air.

Because, Christ, but there are bullets. It's a veritable hail of gunfire from the Hydra agents standing on the ramparts. That would be bad enough on its own, but then the ground not too far away heaves up as another line of bullets hits, from a turret mounted high above. Tony's pretty sure that's a repurposed anti-aircraft gun. It's like they knew one of them might be flying.

Monte Cassino must have tipped them off.

And then the next turret fires a bright green ray. Jesus.

The ground _melts_ where the beam touches it.

Tony's starting to think the idea that they could take this base with eight people—even when two of them are Captain America and one of them is wearing an Iron Man suit from the future—might have been overly optimistic.

Or, to put it more simply: they're fucked.

"Who was it telling me there'd be no ground-to-air fire, huh?" Rogers yells, over Tony's head. "You take off next to that, Tony, they'll bring even you down!"

It's not him Rogers is yelling at—it's the other Tony Stark. The one from the future. From another future.

If Tony hadn't known they were the same person, he sure wouldn't be able to tell right now. Stark is fully armored, wearing an Iron Man suit in gleaming red and gold that puts everything Tony has ever designed to shame. Tony's suit fits in a crate, is transported by a dirigible, and takes at least one other person to help him get into. Stark keeps half of his suit in a suitcase and the other half of it _under his skin_. Tony is intensely jealous, and he would be even more jealous, but he's gotten the impression over the past few days that Stark's life is an unending parade of tragedies and probably the world's worst case of combat fatigue. He'll keep his own armor and do without that misery.

"I'm thinking!" Stark yells back. The suit gives his voice an odd, mechanical distortion. It doesn't even sound like him. But Tony knows it is, underneath.

Torch, Toro, and Namor are still under cover further away—good—and Steve and Bucky are several more feet down the wall, with Steve holding the shield over Bucky exactly like Rogers is doing for him. They're supposed to be taking out the airstrip. Tony surveys the terrain critically. The airstrip's not too far, but it's an open run. No cover. They need to take out the guns first, but that doesn't seem to be happening.

It doesn't need to be all the guns, even. Just the ray gun, as Tony understands it. Once that's off, Stark can go up and clear the ramparts. That was the plan. In that armor, Stark is bulletproof against anything else they're likely to be firing, or so he'd said. He doesn't seem like he's minding the bullets, anyway. Unfortunately, everyone else is.

And then Tony has an idea.

"Hey, Iron Man!" he calls out, and Stark turns his head. "You said you could talk to machines?"

Stark must see where he's going with this, because he shakes his head. It's a huge movement in the suit. His stare is impassive and disconcerting; Tony can't see his eyes behind the shining eyeslits. "Not guns. Gunpowder's chemical. My powers are electrical. I can talk to computers. Which mostly don't exist yet. So I'm. Uh. Mostly useless."

"Tony!" Rogers snaps, in reproach, and Tony wonders what the hell happened where he came from to make Stark think he's no better than dirt.

"Electrical?" he repeats, just as the green beam fires again. It's closer this time. "So you could switch that ray gun off?" He'll bet anything there's electricity powering it. Why wouldn't aliens have electricity? "You could buy us some time and cut the power for this whole damn place at the generator?"

Stark is perfectly still. In the suit, he's unreadable. Then he laughs like static on the radio. "You're a fucking genius."

"You can _do_ that?" Rogers asks Stark, and Tony wonders why he didn't know. Surely he knows everything Stark can do. He remembers Stark saying that the talking-to-machines thing was recent, though, so maybe Rogers doesn't know.

There's some subtle change in the way Stark is standing; there must be. Tony has no idea how that's possible in what has to be a good six-and-a-half feet of armor, but he'd swear that now Stark is _determined_. "I can sure as hell try." There are lights glowing in his palms, but he holds his hands at his sides. "Right. Gun first, or generator?"

"Gun," Tony says, instantly, and he's gratified to hear Rogers echo him.

"All right." Stark doesn't move. He's still standing there. "In five, four, three." He falls silent, and Tony finishes the count in his head. Two. One.

There's an electrical crackle, ear-splittingly loud, and a bright flash of green light, like the world's eeriest lightning.

The gun stops firing.

"Time for the generator," Stark says. Even with the distortion, it sounds like his breathing is all wrong, raspy and too heavy.

"Tony?" Rogers asks, voice high in concern.

"I've got it," he says, but his voice is wavering. "It's just big, is all. Never done this before. Okay. Generator in five."

He doesn't count aloud this time, but at zero Stark groans like he's been shot and visibly sags in the armor, toppling back, falling against the wall. Every light Tony can see in the base goes out. There's a hell of a lot of confused shouting in German.

"Tony!" Rogers' face is pale and taut, and he looks like he wants to run over to Stark and drag him away from all of this, but he can't, because he's covering Tony.

Stark's leaning against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut, but he raises his head, tilting the impassive faceplate in their direction. "Well," he says, and his voice is too thick. "The good news is that they probably don't know what the Power Gem does, because they haven't figured out how to hook it into their electrical system. I wouldn't have been able to pull that off if they had." He coughs wetly. "The less good news is that I might be bleeding from my nose. Kind of a lot."

"If you die on me," Rogers growls, "so help me, I will charge in there, get the damn Gem, get the Gauntlet, and resurrect you so I can kill you myself." His face then twists, screwed up under the wreck of his cowl, like he's appalled with himself for something about that sentence.

"You say the sweetest things, Cap." Stark coughs again. He pushes himself to his feet. "So noted. Going up and over."

Tony guesses that's all the warning they're going to get, because then Stark's in the air. Tony saw him fly for a bit before, but he's not quite sure how it works. The round lights in his palms are brighter, an electric glow, and there are similar lights in the soles of his boots. They match the strange triangular light in the middle of his chest; in Tony's armor, that's about where the repulsor pump connection is, but Stark said he doesn't run the armor off his heart anymore. Tony guesses he'll never find out how any of it works. Even though he wouldn't trade their lives for anything, he's still a bit jealous.

Stark swoops upward, with an easy economy of movement, flying like he's been doing it all his life. He's incredibly graceful in the air, and okay, maybe Tony's a lot jealous.

There's a noise like wires humming, quiet at first, then building, and the air somewhere overhead is briefly lit up. Unnatural, amid the rattle of gunfire. Rogers is calm, unworried. Whatever noise that is, he knows it.

"Another ray gun?" Tony wonders.

Rogers shakes his head. "No. Well, sort of. That's Tony." He sounds proud.

As they listen, the guns begin to drop off, and there are the thuds of bodies hitting stone, as the humming grows louder. Then there's only humming. Then silence.

A few more seconds pass, and then Stark lands in a crouch, hands held out.

"That's the ramparts and the courtyard done," Stark says. "Sensors say that the Power Gem is deep inside. Can't get an exact lock yet."

Rogers turns to Steve and Bucky. "This is as clear as you're getting." He bites his lip, like he might want to say something else. He doesn't. Tony knows all about secrets, so he can't exactly fault the guy. "Go now. And good luck."

They start to move out.

"Hey," Tony says, as Steve begins to turn. "You come back, okay?"

It's not what he wants to say. It's not what he wants to do. He'd really like to kiss him. He already did this morning; he'd dragged him out behind the barn for about fifteen rushed seconds of gloriously frantic kissing, because he wasn't about to head off to battle without getting one last kiss from his sweetheart. He's pretty sure he saw Rogers and Stark standing suspiciously close as well; he figures they must have done the same.

Steve smiles back at him, bright and determined. "I will if you will. You're going to let me draw that issue of Marvels, remember?"

And then he and Bucky are gone, running along the edge of the wall and down, down, down to the airstrip.

There's nothing Tony can do now but hope. And fight his own fight. There's no way to talk to them, because the only people who can talk to each other are Stark and Rogers, because the future has very small radios that they're apparently wearing. All he can do is wait for them to make the rendezvous. They're supposed to fight back up to the courtyard when they're done.

Stark tilts his head at him, like he's contemplating something. "You said your armor flew?"

"Yeah."

"So you won't freak out," Stark says, whatever the hell that means, "if I do this?"

Before he can say anything else, Stark's grabbed him, hard, holding him fast, and they're in the air. The ground tilts beneath them, and they're up and over the ramparts in an instant, and God, Tony's suit is nothing like this. He whoops in sheer delight, and he thinks Stark is laughing into the wind.

Stark swears when they see the courtyard. There are the sprawled bodies of Hydra agents in their familiar green and yellow, but there are still Hydra agents moving, pouring in from the sole huge door into the main base.

"That filled up again fast," Stark yells. "Mind if I drop you here by yourself for a sec and grab Cap?"

"I'll be fine," he yells back, because it's not like he's not heavily armed. He'd ended up with Stark's ray gun in addition to his usual arsenal, after all, although Stark had insisted that Rogers take his other sidearm.

The Hydra goons start shooting as they swoop to a landing. Stark turns them so that Tony's closest to the courtyard wall and Stark's blocking them with his body. He lets Tony go on the other side of a pillar, and Tony steps off, drops into a crouch, and unholsters his pistol. Stark turns and holds his hand out palm-up like he's about to tell their opponents to stop. A bright ray lashes out from the light in the center of his palm; it's the same thing that had lit up when he was flying, only brighter.

The nearest three Hydra agents collapse, and Tony stares, open-mouthed.

He definitely wants this armor.

"One minute," Stark says, and then he's aloft and gone again.

Tony takes out two more Hydra agents by the time Stark reappears with Rogers clinging to him. He hadn't thought it had felt particularly sedate when Stark had flown him over—far from it—but he guesses this is what Stark had meant by _practiced_ , because the two of them are in a completely different class altogether. They're not even slowing down. Stark's flying horizontally, arms free, and Rogers is dangling off him, wrapped around him with both legs and one arm, blocking bullets with the glowing light shield as they swoop down. They're at least twenty feet up and diving when Rogers snaps the shield off, swings around so both his hands are braced on Stark's armored shoulders, and then pushes off upside-down and backflips in midair to land on his feet in the middle of the courtyard.

He has the shield up again by the time Stark lands at his six, palms raised, covering him everywhere the shield can't, like they fight together as naturally as they breathe.

Tony guesses that this is also what Rogers had meant by _experienced_.

Several of the closest Hydra agents are also staring in awe, and Tony takes this opportunity to shoot them in the back with the ray gun.

There's a bright light, minimal noise, and no recoil whatsoever.

The ray gun, Tony decides, is pretty swell.

Stark shoots a few more, and then the two of them are running... toward him.

Rogers drops down next to him and brings the shield up. He turns to Stark. "Right. Tony, you want to start the push while we clean up out here and come in on your tail? Then the rest of the team can let themselves in and keep an exit open."

Stark had told him that if this went according to plan, they wouldn't need the team to hold an exit path; they could make a portal through space, like the one that had brought Stark here, with the Infinity Gauntlet.

It didn't mean they shouldn't have a back-up plan, though.

And Tony knows they're going to need one, since they're up against Zemo. _It might not be the same one_ , he tells himself. He's been telling himself that over and over since he read the first of the radio transcripts. He hasn't seen him since '39, after all, and there was that explosion. Zemo might not have survived; Tony barely did, himself.

But he knows somehow that he's not going to be that lucky.

He can't think about this now. Not the time.

Stark nods, with a decisive jerk of his helmeted head. "Can do. But bring a light, Cap; it's going to be dark in there."

Rogers glances over at Tony—does Rogers not have a flashlight of his own?—and Tony obligingly holsters the pistol and gestures to the flashlight at his belt.

"I can see in the dark better than most people," Rogers says, and Tony guesses he's saying that for his benefit, because that seems like a thing Stark would know about him already.

"Then we're good to go," Stark says, and he turns toward the base. "See you soon. Wish me luck."

"Always," Rogers replies, quietly. Like Stark's asked him something else instead.

Stark nods once. And then he's gone, into the base. Rogers stares after him for a few seconds, and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips.

He's afraid. For Stark. Maybe for all of them.

"He's going to be fine," Tony tells him. "They're all going to be fine." They have to believe that. They have to.

He doesn't know what to think about Rogers. It's not like he's known Steve that long—technically, he's only known him for a few days, a few more days than he's known Rogers—but he can see Steve echoed in Rogers, strange and distorted, like a carnival mirror. Rogers has everything he saw in Steve that first night, everything that drew them together across a crowded room, everything that made him hold out his hand. He's strong and bright and determined, just and true, unbroken despite years of war, commanding, with a presence that could be called charismatic if the word itself weren't a poor imitation of the reality. But he's not perfect. Rogers is old, weary, self-righteous, stubborn to the point of intractability, and goddamn _terrifying_ when he's angry, which seems to be frequently. (Tony's not sure why Stark's not scared of him. _He_ is.)

It's like he sees hints of that in Steve, now that he's looking, places where they could rub up and prickle but haven't yet, and it frightens him. He doesn't want Steve to be like that. He doesn't want the two of them to be like that.

Rogers is almost ninety, he'd said. Maybe this is what decades of fighting does to him.

He just wants them to be happy together. He wants this to work out. He's fallen pretty hard for Steve already. He knows Steve has fallen for him.

He doesn't know what to do.

Now is also not the time to think about _that_.

"I go left, you go right," Rogers says, and without waiting for acknowledgment he barrels down the left side of the edge of the courtyard, blocking bullets and slamming his glowing shield into the face of anyone unfortunate enough to be in his path.

Tony reloads, moves to the next pillar, picks out everyone he can reach with one bullet apiece, dodges and rolls to the next pillar, and does it again. And again. And again. Halfway through he switches to the ray gun.

By the time they meet at the end of the courtyard there's no one conscious in the courtyard except them.

"Good work," Rogers says, and Tony has the sense that when this fella hands out praise, he really means it. "Time to open the— get down!"

Before Tony even knows what's going on, Rogers slams into him, knocking them both behind the last pillar, and rolls them until his shield is over their heads.

Another bright beam drills into the wall right where Tony's head had been.

Hydra agents are pouring out of the door in vast numbers, a sea of green and yellow, and they're all armed with ray guns. Everyone else so far, Tony realizes, had been a warm-up. One of them has something shoulder-mounted and impressive-looking, definitely futuristic, and Rogers bites out an obscenity.

"They are _not_ supposed to be here," Rogers says. "Not with those guns, not against us. This is going sideways fast."

Tony's no slouch at battlefield tactics, and as soon as Rogers says it he sees the problem: these are Zemo's better troops, and the two of them are not the target Zemo should be sending them after. Zemo's biggest threat should be Stark, who is already within the base and heading for the Gem. The only reason Zemo would have to waste these goons on them is that he is absolutely confident that whatever he has inside can take down Stark, and that means Stark's walking into a trap.

Or Steve and Bucky are, of course. Or all of them. God, Tony hopes— but he can't worry about them.

Or there's the other explanation, the one Rogers doesn't know about, which is that it's very specifically Tony that Zemo wants dead. That... sounds like a good bet as well. Unfortunately.

The guy with the shoulder-mounted gun fires another bright green bolt, and the wall above them starts to melt. The stone is dripping.

Rogers regards it with some trepidation.

Tony realizes they've been pinned in.

"Any way we could get your friend the Tin Man back here to help us out?" Tony yells, over the gunfire. There's no way they're getting inside now. Or back. Or anywhere except dead.

Crouching next to him, Rogers puts his hand to his ear. "Hey, Shellhead," he yells at the air. "It's heating up out here! Hot like plasma!" There's a pause. "No, we can't get there," he says. "I mean, _I_ can, but not if I have to cover him!"

Tony remembers them saying that they didn't want him on this part of the attack, and he's beginning to see why.

Rogers' eyes go wide, incredulous. "No," he says, flatly. "No, no, no, Tony, no. You are not." Another pause. "Well, I object. Strenuously." His face twists. "You remember that conversation we had about which of us were bulletproof, Tony? Tony!"

He drops his hand. Tony guesses Stark has stopped talking.

Rogers turns to him. "Strip," he says, and he doesn't sound like he's kidding.

"What?"

"Strip," he repeats. "As much as you can. Weapons, coat, and boots, at minimum. Maybe the rest. We'll have to see." He holds out a hand. "Come on. Give me the guns. Thirty seconds."

"What? Why?"

"Because Tony is going to get himself killed with his goddamn genius ideas," Rogers says. "Twenty-five seconds."

That doesn't explain anything, but Tony slaps one gun and then the other into Rogers' outstretched hands. He sheds his coat. He unbuckles the holsters that he clearly doesn't need anymore and hands them over.

"You know," Tony says, "I'd appreciate a little romance here first." He's suddenly very aware that this is the guy who walked in on him and Steve in flagrante delicto. It's awkward. Especially when they're, well, clearly the same person.

Rogers ignores him and somehow finds a way to strap on the guns. When he looks up he seems unthrilled with Tony's progress.

"Boots!" Rogers snaps, and he's ripping at the laces of Tony's boots himself. Another bolt crackles and hits the wall above them, closer now. "Faster."

Tony times it by the pounding of his repulsor pump—which he can already tell is draining more quickly than he'd planned—as he yanks his feet out of his boots. At ten seconds he's completely unarmed and shivering, crouching there, barefoot, stripped down to his trousers and shirt. Rogers is regarding him critically. Tony has no idea what the hell is going on.

"Tony's lost a lot of weight lately," Rogers says, a cryptic pronouncement, squinting at him and grimacing, his hand briefly fitting around Tony's arm and shoulder like he's a tailor measuring him for a suit, "but it's not exactly skin-tight. It might work. And it's not like I can actually stop him."

The countdown hits zero, and bright pieces of crimson metal stream through the doorway.

Tony doesn't realize what's going on until the first piece of metal wraps around his forearm. And then there's no time to think, as the rest of the armor falls into place, one piece after the next: arms, legs, chest, back. He rocks up, still crouched, but almost loses his balance as the boots slide on one at a time, the soles wedging themselves under his feet, with the uppers locking into place above them. It's clear when wearing the suit that it wasn't designed for his exact body, but the fit is very, very good, and it's much lighter than his armor, besides. He can walk in this. It feels like he could even run in this. He is Iron Man.

Rogers nods approvingly.

And then the helmet drops over his head. Everything goes dark and then lights up all at once. There are images projected in front of his eyes, a cinema in miniature. His vision is overlaid with what look like targeting crosshairs, but they're grayed out. At the top, like a banner, the words IRON MAN ARMOR MODEL 29 hang, in space. There are numbers floating at the edge of his vision: pulse, oxygen, blood pressure, or so they say. He wonders if the numbers are for him or Stark. There are other words, too: WEAPONS: STANDBY / REMOTE ONLY. FLIGHT: STANDBY / REMOTE ONLY. MOVEMENT: UNLOCKED. COMMS SELECT: AVENGERS/ALL, AVENGERS/ROGERS, AVENGERS/STARK, EXTERNAL.

Well, this is much fancier than what he's got at home.

The listing blinks AVENGERS/STARK, and then Stark's voice—his own voice, with an accent he doesn't have—echoes in the helmet with perfect clarity, as if Stark's speaking into his ear. No static. He wouldn't even know it was a radio.

"Hey there," Stark says. "Figured out a way to get you inside here safely. You like the suit?" There's a pause. "Just talk and I'll hear you."

"I like the suit," he says, and he knows he sounds awed. Maybe overwhelmed. "Not quite sure what to do with all the bells and whistles."

"Don't worry about 'em," Stark says. "Only I can operate the bells and whistles, as you say, and I'm—oof!—a little distracted right now. All you have to do is walk. Or run. You're bulletproof in that. And you can punch people. That'll get you pretty far."

"They have ray guns."

"Look at them. Let me see," Stark says, and Tony obligingly turns his head and a symbol like a stylized film camera appears at the edge of his vision for a few seconds.

"Like that?"

"Pfft," Stark says, dismissively. "They're fine. Won't hurt you. Cap's shield can take hits from the little ones, too. Which he knows. Just avoid the big one."

The giant ray gun fires another burst, closer still, and in the suit Tony tries to wince away and can't. "Will do. How do I know where I'm going?"

A translucent map overlays itself on his vision. There's a green dot in the middle—for him, he guesses—and then in the middle of what looks like a warren of corridors, only partially mapped, is another green dot. Even farther away is a red dot, in empty space.

"Green is me and you," Stark says. "Map's not complete, sorry. Red is the Power Gem. It hasn't moved much. Looking forward to seeing you. Ow, that was close. Gotta go."

The lit-up words switch from AVENGERS/STARK to EXTERNAL.

Rogers is looking at him, he realizes. The stare is a little strange, like he's not sure what to think of another version of his Tony Stark wearing his armor.

"Everything okay?" Rogers asks. "It fits?"

"I'm good," he says. He can only hear his own voice echoing, but Rogers must hear it, because he nods. And then a thought occurs to Tony. "Wait, if I'm wearing his armor, what the hell is protecting _him_?"

Rogers looks at him bleakly, and Tony knows that the answer is _nothing whatsoever_.

"I'd like to catch up to him soon," Rogers says, voice gone tight, and he lifts his shield.

Tony stands up, and five Hydra agents shoot their ray guns—and he holds his breath while some of the numbers in the edge of his vision raise drastically—and the rays all bounce off him.

"Wow," Tony breathes.

"Running now," Rogers yells, and he dives for the door of the base, shield held out.

Behind them, a grenade is lobbed over the walls, and Tony grins. That's Namor and Toro and Torch, saving the day. They can mop up the courtyard just fine.

Tony's got a Gem to find.

This is just like his old job. He grins as he realizes it. He can do this. This is his favorite part.

* * *

Tony goes first, because he's the one with the map. As soon as he steps through the door, it's dark, and his vision switches to an odd palette of mostly green. He frowns.

"Everything's green."

"That's expected," Stark says in his ear, and Tony jumps. "Welcome to the future. We have night-vision gear here. Also, tell Captain Worrywart that the undersuit is knifeproof, thank you very much."

"I heard that," Rogers mutters. And then, louder: "Hey, ask him if the people he's fighting have knives and not guns—"

Rogers' sardonic retort cuts off. There's a crackling hum, and then the lights flicker on. Tony's vision returns to normal.

"Well, _that's_ not good," Stark murmurs. "What I did ought to have kept them down longer than that. Unless they've figured out what the Gem does."

The red dot on the map, Tony realizes, has moved since he first saw it. And it's moving now. Toward Stark.

"The Gem is moving," Tony reports. "Closer to him. To Tony."

Rogers' eyes are wide. "Come on, then. Hurry."

They run.

Tony relays directions from the map as fast as he can—left, then right, then right again, then left again—and suddenly they're surrounded, Hydra agents ahead of them and pouring in from behind them, and there's no cover. It's close quarters fighting. He thinks Rogers is swinging the shield behind him, but he can't exactly turn around and look.

He balls up his fist and swings an armored punch. The guy in front of him crumples, and another one quickly steps up to take his place. There are definitely too many people here.

"Wow, you're swamped," Stark says. He sounds more than a little distracted. "Put your hands up."

"What?"

"Hands up," Stark repeats. "Aim with your palms." And then Tony understands. "Just say when."

He lifts his hands up the way he'd seen Stark do it, tilting them back. The movement is awkward, unfamiliar—after all, in his suit, he only has guns.

"Ready."

The words WEAPONS: UNLOCKED blink in Tony's vision. The dimmed targeting crosshairs in his vision go bright, painting the torsos of the nearest Hydra goons with color, like looking in the scope of a rifle. Of multiple rifles at once. The words in his vision switch to WEAPONS: REPULSOR RAYS: LIVE. ACQUIRING TARGETS. TARGETS LOCKED. CHARGING.

There's a rising whine in his ears. The hallway seems brighter.

Tony's vision flashes FIRING and light streams from his hands, like the ray gun he was using, but more powerful. He thinks his jaw has dropped; he's amazed at the power. Stark has this and he takes it for granted?

Everyone in front of him goes down.

The words change back to WEAPONS: STANDBY. Tony gingerly lowers his hands.

"That was something else," he says, dazed. Bright spots, afterimages, dance in his vision. He wants to be able to do that every day, and at the same time, he thinks maybe he shouldn't. That it's wrong to know this much. To have this power.

Stark laughs a little, in his ear. "Glad you're having a good time. Also, not to rush you, but I—ow, fuck—I'd appreciate some help sooner rather than later."

Tony glances back, and Rogers smashes the last of the Hydra agents behind them against the wall with a swing of his shield, which crackles as it hits the wall. It's economical and brutal. He fights like he's done this for years upon years, like this is nothing new. And to him it probably isn't. It isn't new for Steve anymore either, but it really isn't new for Rogers.

They pick their way over the downed agents. The next Hydra agents they come to are already downed, dead or just unconscious, more than a few of them riddled with bullets, and Tony is positive that that's Stark's doing.

They turn the last corner, and Stark's standing in the middle of a T-junction, wearing—well, Tony has no idea what the hell it is. He'd thought Stark's previous uniform was far too tight, but this—he might as well be wearing nothing. Tony hopes it doesn't become the fashion here. It's golden, covering him from head to toe—even his hands are covered—and several areas of it look like they have some kind of raised circuitry. Whatever it is, it's not currently covering his head; that's the only part of Stark that's exposed. His hair is damp with sweat, there's a purpling bruise on his cheekbone, and there are several drying streaks of blood across his face. He looks up and grins, wild-eyed. He's holding a stolen pistol in each hand.

"Great to see you," Stark says. "I was out of ammo."

He lets both pistols fall, kicks them away, and grabs both the ray gun and the gun he'd given Rogers off his belt, in a manner that suggests he's used to being free with Rogers' possessions. Rogers doesn't look as if he minds. His face is stern, but there's unmistakable relief in his eyes.

They love each other, Tony knows.

Rogers blinks and looks down at the guns in Stark's hands. "You're not taking the suit back?" he asks, with a glance in Tony's direction.

"He needs it more than I do right now," Stark says. "Besides, I've got excellent reflexes these days. And a healing factor." He looks over at Tony. "You're holding up okay in there, right?"

"Are you kidding?" Tony says. Even without direct control over the weapons or flight, the armor material itself is amazing. He wonders if Stark will tell him what it is. "You've never seen my suit, but let me tell you, this is the lap of luxury in comparison."

"See?" Stark says to Rogers, and Tony feels like he's some bargaining chip in a long-standing argument. "He likes the suit."

Rogers glares. "When I said I'd save you, I didn't mean you should try to get yourself killed."

Stark just looks at him, and then Rogers colors, as if Stark's spoken, but Tony hears nothing. He supposes it's got something to do with being able to talk to machines. Maybe he can talk to radios the same way he can listen to them.

Rogers looks over at Tony and goes redder, like Tony's eavesdropping, when in fact he can't hear a single thing that's going on here.

"Right," Rogers says. "Moving on." He brandishes the shield. "Which way?"

Tony turns and points at the corridor to the right at the same time as Stark gestures to it, with the hand holding the ray gun.

"Not far now," Tony says. They've got to know it's some kind of trap, don't they? He supposes it doesn't matter; they can't exactly retreat.

Stark's smile is grim. "They're bringing the party to us, Cap."

_Yeah_ , Tony thinks. _He knows it's a trap. They both do_.

"How considerate," Rogers says, and then they're all running.

* * *

So they fight. And they fight. Tony punches as best as he can in the suit, leading the way. His world devolves into fists, power, the feel of his opponents resisting and slackening, falling away. Through the eyeslits everything looks different, and he feels like he can't be hurt, even though he's sure that must not be true. Fighting like this is an entirely new world.

On one side of him, Rogers is using the shield as a battering ram; on the other, Stark is shooting, gunshots and ray gun blasts echoing down the corridors. They both move fast, faster than he does. Even accounting for the weight of the armor slowing him down, Tony's pretty sure they're both faster than regular people. One of the Hydra agents has a weapon Tony doesn't even recognize, an even scarier-looking gun than the one that was melting the walls outside, and he hardly has a chance to see the guy before Stark kicks out, high and hard, and the man goes down.

Even Rogers looks impressed.

"Hey, Cap," Stark calls out. "Thanks for all the hand-to-hand training."

"My pleasure," Rogers says, as he slams another Hydra agent into the wall with his shield.

Neither of them even sound winded, Tony thinks, jealously, as sweat drips down the back of his neck. His heart lurches in his chest. Not the time. Really not the time.

CARDIAC ARRHYTHMIA, his vision says, the words flashing red, and no shit, tell him something he doesn't know. SUIT-INTERNAL CARDIAC BATTERY CHARGING UNAVAILABLE IN MODEL 29 ARMOR, it says, and okay, he didn't know that, but he'd been hoping for better news.

"Sorry," Stark says, and his mouth isn't moving but Tony can still hear him. He guesses somehow Stark can monitor his health, in addition to talking to radios. "Never planned for this when I built the suit. I can't recharge you unless I'm the one in the suit. How long have you got left on the ticker?"

"Depends on how long this all keeps going," Tony says, mostly meaning _depends on how much Zemo scares the shit out of me this time_. He doesn't think his chances are looking good.

The Power Gem has come to a halt on the map, a blinking red dot. There's one more door between them and it. He knows Stark knows, and he's pretty sure Stark has relayed it to Rogers.

Rogers looks at Stark, gives a tight nod, and then smashes the door open with the edge of his glowing shield.

They step into a large empty room. No cover whatsoever. Definitely a trap.

Baron Zemo is standing at the other end of the room. Tony feels his heart try and fail to skip a beat, as the repulsor pump goes out of sync and makes him sway dizzily for an instant. The armor blinks another warning. Tony ignores it.

He looks just like Tony remembers him, uniform and all. Including the hood. Of course he has a hood. It does mean Tony can't tell exactly who's under there by looking at him, but he's about the right size to be the same man. In his clenched fist he's holding something small, and red light shines from between his fingers. The Power Gem. It has to be. In his other hand, he has a pistol.

This is not good.

_His name is Heinrich Zemo_ , Tony reminds himself. _It doesn't matter who he was before. There's nothing left now._

Behind him are at least a dozen more Hydra agents, all heavily armed. In the far corner are a few crates, unlabeled, and Tony suspects he'd really rather not discover the contents.

"Tony," Zemo says, and Tony shudders at the fake-German accent. It's just enough like his real voice to be an unpleasant reminder of everything he isn't, and it's different enough that no one who doesn't know already will realize it. "Wonderful to see you again, my boy."

Zemo's not talking to him, but all the hair on the back of Tony's neck stands on end, regardless. He's talking to Stark. Because he thinks Stark is him. It's a reasonable supposition. Completely wrong, but entirely understandable.

And Stark, of course, isn't reacting the way he should. He doesn't _know_ , Tony thinks.

Maybe he should have told him. He couldn't figure out how. It's too late now.

Stark frowns. He's still aiming a gun at Zemo, but from what he's said, bullets are useless against someone with the Power Gem. He looks contemplative and more than a little confused. "I can't say as I really enjoy being on a first-name basis with you," he drawls.

"Oh, dear." Zemo clucks his tongue. "That wounds me, Tony." And he tilts his head, taking in the rest of them; the three of them are standing in a line. "And this, I suppose, would be the famous Captain America?"

Rogers doesn't dignify the question with a response; he merely hefts the glowing shield a little higher.

Zemo sniffs dismissively. "Mmm. He looks a little older than he does in the newsreels. The ravages of war, nein?"

God. He thinks that Rogers is Steve too. That's also logical, Tony knows, but still—this whole situation is a mess.

"Is it your friend Mr. Rhodes in the suit, my boy?" The words curl and slide off Zemo's tongue almost idly. "I'd thought it would have been you. That witless idiot MODOK had a great deal to say about Iron Man and Captain America at Monte Cassino. And I shouldn't have thought you'd let anyone else try out such fine new armor." There's a shading of avarice in his tone, and Tony cringes as Zemo holsters the pistol and turns to him, holding out a hand like he's imagining the contours of the armor against his fingertips. _It's not him_ , he repeats. _It's not him. He's gone_. And then Zemo turns back to Stark. "But yet, here you are, out of the armor. Vulnerable. Helpless."

CARDIAC ARRHYTHMIA, the armor flashes helpfully, as Tony's chest tightens all over.

_Fuck off, I know I'm dying_ , Tony thinks at it, but that doesn't seem to do anything to make the message stop. Clearly only Stark can think at it.

As if on cue, one of the other readouts switches to WEAPONS: UNLOCKED and then WEAPONS: ALL: LIVE. The targeting crosshairs come up again, and Tony raises his hands while the thought repeats over and over, the single question: would Stark do this if he knew whose face was under Zemo's hood?

He supposes it doesn't matter. It's happening anyway.

The words in Tony's vision switch to WEAPONS: ERROR. Oh. Oh, no. ERROR, it says, TARGET LOCK FAILURE. COSMIC ENERGIES RISING. ALERT. ALERT.

"Did you really think," Zemo practically purrs, "that I could not discover the abilities of this little gemstone?" He laughs. "I now hold infinite power in my hand. How exactly were you planning to _fight me_ for it, Tony?"

The Gem in Zemo's fist glows brighter still.

He clenches his fist tighter around the Gem and takes a few steps in Stark's direction. His fist crackles red with alien energy.

"Oh, fuck me," Stark says, in his ear. "This is going to hurt."

Zemo thrusts his fist at Stark, a thrown punch from ten feet away. Bright red energy crackles through the air, like a crimson lightning bolt, aiming straight for Stark's heart—

—and Rogers dives in front of the energy bolt, shield held out in front of him.

"Steve!" Stark yells, hoarsely. "No!"

The energy bolt connects with the glowing energy shield.

And everything shatters. The energy shield makes a horrible noise, a sizzling zap, and it implodes in on itself in multicolored light. The red energy hits Rogers dead-on, right in the middle of the star on his ragged uniform. His body arches and convulses in midair, and he collapses in the middle of the room.

He doesn't move.

"No," Stark repeats, low and broken, a cry of utter misery.

MEDICAL SENSORS, say the words in front of Tony's eyes, and more numbers spring up. Alive. He's alive. Unconscious and clearly badly wounded, but alive. So what the hell is wrong with Stark? Rogers is alive. They can do this.

Zemo laughs. "I had no idea you cared so much for Captain America, my boy," he says, sneering.

Tony wants to tell Stark to hide it all away, to not show him anything, because if he knows what—or whom—they love he will use it to destroy both of them. 

But Stark can't seem to hide anything. He's shaking. He's not seeing anything. He's just staring at Rogers.

Zemo steps forward and nudges Rogers' prone form with the toe of his boot. He holds out the hand with the Power Gem over his body.

"Drop your weapons," he says. "Drop your weapons and surrender, or the next blow will be fatal for your poor captain."

_No_ , Tony wants to say.

The guns fall from Stark's hands.

"I think also that your compatriot might wish to remove his armor," Zemo says. His voice sounds almost pleasant. "Or you will watch me crush him in it, hmm?"

He tightens his fist. Something in the armor makes an unfortunate creaking noise. ALERT: CERVICAL PLATING STRESS APPROACHING SAFE LIMITS, the suit says, and Tony feels the metal go tighter around his throat.

Stark is still staring at Rogers' body, like he's heard nothing else.

"Come now," Zemo says. "I know that you—and your friend—control your new suit by means of radio waves. I did intercept your transmissions, even though I have not yet decoded them. I have had a special case prepared for your suit." He motions to the men behind him, who fetch what looks like a giant metal box from the closest crate. "You don't want me to have done all that work for nothing, do you, Tony?" He pauses. "Think about how much you'd like your friends to stay alive. Tell him to remove the armor." The hood moves around his mouth like he's smiling. "I've had a place in my laboratory prepared for you for years."

Tony would rather be dead than in Zemo's custody. He's pretty sure he knows what the ultimate outcome of that is, and it's not good for anyone.

"Don't give in," he says. "I'd rather die first." The words echo in the helmet. Stark's cut off the transmissions. No one hears him.

The words ARMOR ORDER: DISASSEMBLE flash before his eyes. The screen goes black. The helmet is dark.

And then the armor rains off him in pieces, clattering onto the stone floor.

Tony is now standing in the middle of the room, unarmored and unarmed.

The rest of the room is silent for long moments.

"Well," Zemo says, softly, surprised. "This is interesting. Two of you."

He steps away from Stark over to Tony, and Tony tries to repress a shudder. He ends up flinching. Tony can't see Zemo's face, of course, but he knows that tilt of his head: he's a scientist faced with a conundrum.

"Ah," Zemo murmurs, his voice shading into delight. He knows Tony's afraid, and he loves it. "Yes. _You_ know me, don't you? He doesn't, but _you_ do. How did this come to pass, I wonder?"

Tony says nothing.

"No matter." Zemo shrugs. "I'll have the answer out of you soon enough." He turns to the Hydra agents. "Collect the armor, lock it up tight, and have it sent to my office. Bring the good captain downstairs. Use the adamantium restraints, if you please. Feel free to kill the rest of their team on sight, when you find them. And as for these two—my private laboratory."

He raises the fist with the Power Gem. The red light glints off Stark's face. Stark's eyes go inhumanly black, black all through the sclera, like looking into a void, and he makes an awful choking noise and collapses, hitting the floor hard.

"Interesting," Zemo says, and then there's a fist heading for Tony's face, and then there's nothing.

* * *

The first thing he's aware of is the sickening pounding of his head. He's sitting on a cold, unyielding surface, his back up against something equally unyielding. A wall, probably. His arms are suspended over his head, and he's being restrained by his wrists. Lovely.

Tony opens his eyes.

The room is half-dungeon, half-laboratory, and he is, in fact, chained to a wall. He hates being right. Next to him on the wall, Stark slumps, unconscious, sagging in identical restraints, looking even more bruised than he was the last time Tony saw him. Blood has dripped down his face onto his bizarre golden suit, drying dark on the shining, metallic surface. He doesn't look like he's in great shape. It's strange, Tony thinks, to look on his own face like this.

The rest of the room is desks, lab benches, and an exam table with more restraints attached to it. There's a neat line of bottles and vials set up next to it. Four of them. Four exactly. The first one says "zolpidem" and Tony can make a horrifically good guess about the other three.

Stark moans, a quiet, wretched sound; he starts to raise his head. He's coming around.

Tony's pleased to see that Stark's eyes, when he opens them, are now their normal color, and not whatever the hell that was when Zemo zapped him; he's less pleased that Stark's pupils are two different sizes. Concussion, then.

"You doing okay?"

Stark laughs, a wet, choking sound. Some of the dried blood on his face cracks as he smiles. "After the Power Gem caused an unexpected kernel panic and OS reboot, you mean?" Tony has no idea what any of that means. Stark might as well not be speaking English. "Never been better."

"Good," Tony tells him, "because you look like shit."

"Fuck you," Stark says, wearily. His heart clearly isn't in it. "I'm beautiful on the inside."

"Yeah, and you're wearing a lot of your inside on the outside."

"Oh," Stark retorts, "and I suppose your heart's not giving out on you, is it?"

"I'm fine," Tony says, tightly, as his heart lurches again. "Nothing I can do, anyway. Unless you can call your suit...?"

Stark laughs again, and the sound is even more awful. "The case he put it in is a goddamn Faraday cage. No signals in, no signals out. So simple." The laugh is mocking. "I should have— I should have seen it. Hell, I tried to lock myself out of the armor once and I never tried that. Never even occurred to me." He sighs. "I think maybe I underestimated him. He was nowhere near this smart where I come from."

"I tried to tell you."

There are a lot of things he's tried to tell him.

And the worst of it is, Tony knows he's not going to die here. Zemo won't let his heart kill him. No, that would interfere with what he has planned for him, which is so much worse than death. Death would be a mercy.

Stark looks around the room then, like he hasn't bothered looking around until right now, and it's then that he seems to notice there's only the two of them, because his eyes go wide. "Where's Steve?" There is far more panic in his voice than there should be. Tony thinks that maybe Stark is used to being able to handle this, but he clearly can't now. "Is he—"

"He's fine," Tony says quickly, interrupting him. "He was alive after he took that hit, remember? They're holding him separately." He meets Stark's eyes, holding his gaze for long seconds. "Look, we have to believe he's alive. We have to believe they're all alive. They are. If we give up, we don't make it. You have to know that. I'm sure you know that." He might not know that much about Stark's history, but he'll bet anything it hasn't been an easy life.

Stark takes a slow, shaking breath, and he seems to regain some composure. "Yeah," he says. "I know that. Pretty well." The laugh this time is dry. "This is nowhere near my worst experience in captivity. Not even the most interesting, either."

He knows better than to ask about the worst one. "What was the most interesting?"

There's blood outlining Stark's teeth when he grins. "One time, my armor came to life. Decided it absolutely had to have me. Drove away my girlfriend. Then it decided that if it couldn't have me, no one could, and it flew me to a desert island, tied me up, and tried to kill me. We fought." He's still grinning, like somehow this is a fond memory and not something right out of the horror comics. "And then I had a massive heart attack and it sacrificed itself to save me. Ripped the synthetic heart right out of its own chest, such as it was, and plunged it into mine."

Tony stares, half in awe and half in disbelief. "You're fucking with me."

"Would I lie to myself?"

" _Yes_ ," Tony says, fervently, and Stark lets out a cackle of laughter.

"Point taken," Stark says, his mouth still twitching. "But that one's true. I swear it on— on Cap's shield."

Tony's lying to Stark right now. He wonders if Stark's still lying to him. Probably.

"If I were still publishing Marvels, I could make a fortune off your life story."

Stark grins. "I just bet you could." And then the smile fades, and he rattles at the chains.

Tony knows Stark's thinking about how they're trapped here again. He's probably worrying about Rogers. About everyone. Probably even about Tony's heart—because Tony can only imagine that being chained up next to yourself while you are forced to watch yourself die slowly and can do nothing to prevent it is an experience second only in awfulness to being the one dying.

He feels like he owes it to him to lighten the mood, at least.

"So," he says, "let's talk about something pleasant for a change." He grins. "Captain America. He's wonderful in bed, isn't he?"

Stark chokes. "Excuse me?"

When Tony looks over, there's the faintest hint of reddened skin under the blood and bruises. He's made himself _blush_. It's kind of cute.

"Look," he says. "We're chained up in a Nazi dungeon and we're not going anywhere for the foreseeable future. Now we can either sit here and talk about the torture Zemo is devising for us, which we will not be able to affect with our conversation, or we can talk about Steve's fantastic ass. One of these sounds much more interesting than the other, don't you think?"

"He does have a great ass," Stark admits, with a grin. "I've always thought so, anyway."

"There, that's the spirit."

Even as he says it, he can feel his mind heading away and down, spiraling somewhere dark and remote and alone. He has some idea of what the two of them did to each other that left Stark broken and Rogers dead, and, God, but he doesn't want that to be him and Steve. Even if that law Rogers told him about can't happen here, he doesn't want them to reach that end by another road.

He wonders how they do it. How Stark and Rogers can pick themselves up again and keep loving each other, despite everything. He wonders if he can change the future for himself and Steve. He wonders if he has to make all their mistakes. Stark keeps secrets, he knows—well, so does he. Maybe he's not right for Steve. Maybe they'll ruin each other too.

Stark frowns at him. "You look way too sad for someone thinking about Steve's ass."

Tony sighs. He has no idea how to say what he wants to say, or whether he should even say it. Probably not. But he's asking anyway. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Stark's smile is soft and a little wistful. "I have been in love with him for literally my entire life. So, uh, yeah. You could say that. Not sure why you're saying it in that particular tone, though."

"But you fought." Tony bites his lip. "You fought, and you—" He can't even say it.

"And you're scared that'll be you," Stark says, slowly. Oh, yeah, he understands. He's _him_. Of course he understands. He blows air through his teeth. "I have to say you're not seeing us at our best. This is our worst. This is our actual worst." His mouth curves in the tiniest smile. A spark of hope. An ember. "But it's going to get better. God. It's all going to get better from here. I can see it. I'm a futurist." He laughs. "Used to think I'd never see anything good."

"You think it'll be better?"

"I know it will." Stark seems to have miraculously shaken off the concussion. His eyes are back to normal, and he meets Tony's gaze levelly. "Hey," he murmurs. "Let me tell you about Captain America, okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let me tell you why it's going to be good."

Well, it _is_ better than thinking about what Zemo's going to do.

Stark rattles his chains and his gaze seems to go beyond Tony, far off into the distance. "The first thing you need to know is that he was my hero growing up." He smiles, reminiscently. "He was everyone's hero. I don't think I can explain how famous he was. What he did in the war—no one will ever forget how brave he was. How courageous he was." The way he says it is a little odd, like the war is an endpoint, like Rogers who is eighty-something years old in Stark's world never did anything after it. "He was a symbol when we needed one most of all. He was everything good and right and true. And to me, he was special. When I needed someone, I imagined him being there for me. He was special to a lot of people, I suppose. I was only—" he shrugs. "One of many. One of the millions of kids with his poster on my wall."

"You never thought you'd get to meet him?" 

The way Stark talks about him, Rogers sounds... remote. Even Steve, he knows, had thought about getting to meet _him_. But it sounds to Stark like Captain America was an ideal more than a person. Which is also odd. Stark has to be well-off, as rich as Tony is, at least, to afford to make the suits he's made, to live the life he's lived, to merit those political appointments he's talked about; he's said he's famous. Surely if anyone had connections, connections enough to be able to meet Captain America, it would have been Stark.

Stark shakes his head. "It... wouldn't have been possible when I was a kid. He... wasn't really somewhere where anyone could talk to him."

Maybe a classified mission? Tony supposes that Rogers' military career must have been extensive.

"But he was an inspiration to me," Stark continues. "And I don't just mean—"

"His ass."

"Thank you for lowering the discourse once again," Stark says, dryly. "Yeah. That." He smiles. "No, what I mean is—when I took up being Iron Man. You know, most people, they go to a warzone, step on a landmine, get a chest full of shrapnel, get captured—they wait around for a hostage exchange, they go home and call it a day. They don't build a flying suit of armor to get themselves out of captivity. They don't go home, keep flying the suit, and decide to join forces with a bunch of similarly reckless do-gooders and save everyone in the world who needs saving."

"It's special," Tony ventures, trying to fully grasp Stark's life story. He can sort of see himself doing that.

"So I thought," Stark says. "I thought about Captain America. My hero. And I did—I thought I did—what he would have done. I tried to do good. I still try. And then I met him. A decade ago. We found— I got to meet him." The smile is broader now, and Tony thinks maybe it's the happiest he's ever seen him. "And it was like nothing else. _He_ was like nothing else. He didn't even know who I was, really, who any of us were, but he was— he was. He was himself. I don't know if there are words for it. It's been a decade and I still don't have the right words for it."

"He's really something," Tony agrees. Because there was always something there, the spark he'd seen in Steve, standing there in the Van Dynes' ballroom that night, that spark of pure and utter _goodness_.

"Yours has it too," Stark says, with a quirk of his lips. "Not quite to the same degree, not yet, but it's there. When you're with him, you want to be your best self. More than wanting. It's like he makes you be your best self, like he brings it out of you, even when you're sure there's nothing left. And you look at him and you know you've done something right, that when you're with him, _you're_ good too. God, it's the best feeling in the world." His eyes are misty, a little wet. "Better than flying. Better than sex. Better than drinking. _Captain America is proud of me_ , you think, and you'd do anything for it. Anything for him." There's an actual tear on his cheek now. "There have been a hell of a lot of us Avengers, over the years. A lot of good people. A lot of good friends. A lot of good leaders, even. But none of them have been like Steve. He's the best of us. He always has been."

Tony finds himself smiling. "So you've built a ten-year relationship on hero worship?" Well, Steve certainly admires _him_ enough. And he's definitely taken with Steve. He just can't really imagine his own face looking like _that_ when he talks about him. He thinks maybe it's healthier that way.

Stark blinks. "A ten-year... what?" He shakes his head. "We— no. We, uh. We weren't. Together."

And now it's Tony's turn to stare, because he was pretty goddamn sure they'd been up to something. "You talk about him like _that_ and you're _not with him_?"

"Uh." Stark coughs. "I am now. We. Uh. As of two days ago, yes."

Tony is intimately familiar with the dazed look of happiness on Stark's face. "Well, congratulations." And, because he can't not say it: "You waited _ten years_?"

"Hey, neither of us were exactly celibate in the meantime." He smiles a little bit ruefully, defensively. "It wasn't the right time before for a lot of reasons. There was a lot going on, okay? It was... complicated."

"Your war," Tony says, because he remembers, all right. "That law of yours."

There's pain in Stark's eyes now. "There was a hell of a lot before that. The war just happened to be the last complication. And the worst."

"He _died_ ," Tony says, and Stark flinches. "You ripped each other apart. He died and you ripped _yourself_ apart and you're going to tell me I'm going to be okay?"

"You've seen us. You can learn from our mistakes."

"Learn what, exactly?" Tony snaps, frightened. He doesn't want to lose Steve.

Stark stares at him, evenly. "No lies. No secrets." And Tony wants to shudder because he knows everything about that, because he's lying right now and Stark doesn't know it. "You own up. And it's terrifying. Believe me, I know. But it's the only way. And it works. This is how it works. And it's worth it. If you have each other, it's worth it." He starts to laugh. "It's worth it," he repeats, savoring the words, like there's something strange and delightful there.

Tony has no idea what's funny about that. "Hmm?"

"Nothing," Stark says. "I just realized—I have an answer to a question. A different answer. And maybe not the same question. A better one."

Well, that's elliptical. "Ah."

"I believe in you," Stark says. And then he shrugs a little, awkwardly. The chains rattle again. "You're a better man than I am, anyway. Or at least happier than I was. You must be doing something right."

Tony feels like it's not hard to be happier than Stark was when he got here. The guy was a wreck. "Maybe so," he ventures. "But you seem like you've got something to live for, these days."

Stark smiles, and Tony knows exactly what he's thinking of. Or rather, who.

"Yeah," Stark says. "Yeah, I think maybe I do."

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/34423/34423_original.png)

* * *

Tony estimates by the slowing ticking of his repulsor pump that it's five more minutes until Zemo comes back.

He's more than a little surprised that Zemo gave them that much time. He probably wanted them to contemplate their fate in terror. They did a pretty good job of distracting each other, certainly, but then the door rattles and opens and suddenly it's right back to terror. At least for Tony. Stark doesn't seem to think he has anything to be afraid of.

He doesn't know.

"Well, then," Zemo says, rubbing his hands together as he strides across the room. Tony imagines that he's smiling under the hood. Sneering, probably. The Power Gem gleams on his chest; he's made some kind of necklace for it. A torc, supplies the part of Tony's mind that actually remembers how to be an archaeologist. "And how are we doing today?"

"The accommodations could be better," Stark pants, defiance gleaming bright in his eyes, and Tony's not even surprised that Stark's first line of defense is smartass comments. After all, it's his. "I usually like to save the bondage fun time for my close personal friends. No offense."

This is not, however, a good tactic to try with Zemo.

"Oh, Tony," Zemo says, and even though he's talking to Stark, Tony's skin prickles and crawls. "I'm positively _insulted_ that you wouldn't consider us close." He sighs. "Vulgar of you to imply that sort of relationship, but I suppose you are feeling rather upset now, ja?"

Stark blinks a few times, rapidly, and that's it; he knows for certain now that he's missing something. But of course he's going to bluff it out. "Refresh my memory of our relationship."

"Mmm," Zemo says, not answering. Thank God. "I find myself, Tony, more and more intrigued by the fact that you don't seem to know me."

"Oh, I know you," Stark says. "Unfortunately. Heinrich Zemo, twelfth Baron Zemo."

Zemo nods.

"I try not to tell whackjob Nazi scientists anything about myself, as a rule," Stark continues, "but in this case I think I'll make an exception and mention the basic details: I'm from another universe. You existed there too, once again as a Nazi, which I'm sure is not a surprise. You were also the founder of the Masters of Evil, a truly pathetic group of villains, but, I have always thought, an excellent name for a death metal band." Whatever the hell _that_ is. "In a display of amazing stupidity, you managed to superglue your stupid mask to your stupid face. The mask is even stupider in my universe, by the way. It's purple." He shrugs. "You died a few years ago now, where I'm from. Rockslide. South America. Absolutely tragic." It's clear he doesn't mean it.

Tony guesses things really are different in Stark's universe.

There's a long silence.

"Another universe?" Zemo asks, finally.

Stark nods.

"I suppose," Zemo says, "that you're not going to tell me how you came to be here."

Stark grins; the smile is sad, joyless. "For that, you're gonna need the torture. I hold up really well under torture, though. So, hey, good luck to you." He sounds almost proud. Tony wants to be sick.

Zemo makes a low humming noise. "But that's really all you know about me?"

"Well, we're not exactly friends," Stark says, in a cheerful voice, like they're having a reasonable conversation. "Oh, and you've got a son. Helmut. Thirteenth Baron Zemo. Follows in your footsteps. You'd probably be proud of him. You know, if you weren't dead."

"That isn't my son's name," Zemo says, each word slow and measured, and Tony shudders.

Stark shrugs again. "Like I said. Different universe. These things happen."

And then Zemo rounds on Tony. "You mean you didn't tell him?" He laughs. "You had all this time and you _didn't tell him_?"

"Didn't tell me what?" Stark asks, and he rattles his chains impatiently. "Come on, didn't tell me _what_?"

"Zemo is indeed a title," Zemo says. "It's the name of the brainwashing process. Ingenious, really. Why train your own scientist when you can steal one?" As he speaks, the accent begins to slide away, the faux-German consonants replaced with familiar broad New York vowels. "I've been Zemo for years. And, you see, I was hoping it would be hereditary."

Tony can watch realization spread over Stark's face; Stark knows the voice, but he isn't expecting it here, and he hasn't quite placed it. But he knows he knows it.

And then Zemo reaches up and pulls the hood off.

It is, of course, Howard Stark's face underneath.

He looks more or less the same as he did in '39. A little older. Maybe a little more scarred. That was probably from the explosion. It should have killed him.

Tony dares a glance at his counterpart. Stark's face is bone-white.

"Ah," Zemo says, in his old voice. It's awful to hear it. He's smiling now. "You do know me, son."

Stark's throat works. "You're dead," he whispers. He looks somewhere between stunned and terrified. Mostly terrified, Tony's mind observes, in a distant, remote way. He feels like he's watching this all play out in a cinema. Any minute now Captain America will find him.

No one's coming for them.

"Howard Stark is dead, yes," Zemo says, still smiling. "But his knowledge lives on, in service of the Reich. You will be put to the same use. Admittedly, I had only hoped to find one of you, but two—ah, two is an unexpected bounty. Imagine what you can build for us."

"If you think I'm ever going to give in—" Stark begins. His skin is clammy and his eyes are haunted; he looks like he wants to die, but he's holding himself up, bravely.

Zemo laughs. "How charming. You seem to think you have a choice." He holds out a hand to the row of drugs on the far side of the room. "The brainwashing program that took six months for me has been refined in the intervening years. The initial stages can now be completed in a matter of hours. Complete loyalty. Completely irreversible." He turns back and frowns at the drugs. "You will excuse me. I need more medication for both of you. In the meantime, you can decide which of you will undergo the Zemo process first, and which of you will watch. I think it will be... instructive."

He pulls the hood back over his face and leaves the room, with as little ceremony as when he came in.

That's all of Tony's secrets gone.

* * *

They're alone in the room.

Stark says nothing, but he sags down into the restraints as soon as Zemo leaves. His face is still alarmingly pale, shocked, gray-white under the bruises and dried blood. There's no sound but the shallow, hoarse panting of his breath, like he can't get enough air. His eyes are shut.

"What the _fuck_ ," Stark says, finally. He opens his eyes and his pupils are pinpricks. Fight or flight. He'd probably pick both. "Jesus fucking Christ." He starts to laugh, horrible and low and wet, like he's been shot and he's dying. "I— I can't— I can't do this. What the hell." And then his gaze locks with Tony's. "Nice of you to warn me, you _absolute fucking liar_ ," he snarls, twisted and vicious, and where the hell does he get off, judging _anyone_?

"Oh, yeah?" Tony snaps back. "Tell me all about your moral high ground, why don't you? Oh, Captain America was my childhood hero," he parrots, high and mocking, simpering. "I'm so honored to meet him at last. No, no, I've never met him at all before."

"That was _different_ ," Stark says, glaring. "I didn't tell you about Steve because he was _dead_ and to the best of my knowledge he _wasn't coming back_. It wasn't going to be an issue. Whereas as soon as you knew that Zemo had the Power Gem, you— goddamn you, you sadist, you knew all along—"

"The last time I saw him was four years ago," Tony counters, but even he knows it's a weak protest. "It was a dicey situation. He was trying to kill me. I wasn't sure he'd survived. I barely did, myself. For all I knew, it could have been a different man under the hood."

Stark's still glaring.

Tony sighs. "Look, I'm an asshole. Is that what you want to hear? This should not be news to you. I'm an asshole and a professional liar and a spy and I keep horrible secrets. Were you expecting better from yourself?"

"I was hoping for better," Stark says, and there are tears in his eyes again. He can't wipe his face. "Guess I'm always a disappointment."

His first impulse is to tell Stark to fuck off, but Stark is obviously not holding himself together well and Tony probably shouldn't take it personally.

"Hey," Tony says, softly. "I'm sorry."

Stark's eyes fall shut, acknowledging the apology. "You know," he says, "I really hate to bring up the impending torture, but in the interests of full disclosure, I should probably mention that the brainwashing won't work on me."

"What?"

Stark stretches his arm like he wants to tap his head illustratively, but there's not enough give in the chain and he just ends up leaning into the restraints. "I have Extremis. I'm assuming what he has is chemically-based conditioning." Tony nods, and Stark continues. "I can overclock my metabolism to something approximating super-soldier levels. Anything they give me will bounce right off me."

He can't be serious. What has he done to himself? "Zemo is an acronym," Tony says, flatly. "The E stands for ethanol. You're going to tell me you can't even get drunk?"

Stark pales again and then laughs another one of those dying laughs. "I don't actually know if I can. I haven't tried since before Extremis. Though I have been sorely tempted."

Oh.

There's some kind of story there, and given the parts of Stark's life Tony knows about already, he's guessing this one really isn't good. He's not going to ask.

"They can't disable it? Extremis?"

Stark seems to consider it. "Not even Howard could have been that good." He doesn't, Tony notices, call him Dad. "The Skrulls might have been able to come up with some kind of computer virus, but they'd need at least a blood sample, the Extremis specs, more than two days' head start, and more computing power than they've brought—which is nothing. I'd be able to tell if they had something up and running, and they don't. Just the regular stuff I'd expect from a Hydra base of this vintage. Can't turn the power off again, by the way. He's leaning too hard on the Gem."

"So we're stuck."

Stark sighs. "Yeah. Anyway, he'll probably figure out pretty quickly that I will do literally anything if he puts a gun to Steve's head. He doesn't need drugs for that." He sounds almost contemplative. "Steve was right. I'm compromised. I shouldn't actually be in the field. Nothing to be done now, anyway."

"So it's going to be me, then," Tony says. It's finally hit him. He feels numb. "I'm going to be the next Baron Zemo."

"Looks like." Stark sighs.

Nothing feels real. "Can I ask you for a favor?"

Stark seems to understand that this is something solemn, because he nods once. "If it's in my power to grant." His voice is low, quiet.

Tony breathes in and out, harsh and ragged. "If it comes to that, if they turn me, and if you have the chance—I want you to kill me."

Stark says nothing.

"Steve won't," Tony says. He knows he's begging, and it's awful to have to plead for his own death, but this is what's left now. "Either of them. I know he won't. You know he won't. And if he won't, I don't think there's anyone else who will be able to take me down. Just you. It has to be you. I don't want to live like that, betraying my country, betraying everything and everyone I've ever loved. I don't want to be made into a monster. I know you understand me." He tips his head in Stark's direction. "Somehow I get the feeling you know something about mercy killings."

"Yeah." Stark shudders. "I do." He's silent for a few shaking breaths. "Okay," he says. His voice is raw, and Tony knows this must be costing him something horrible to agree to it, but he's the only one who can. And he knows Stark knows that. "Okay. I promise. If it comes to that. I'll do it."

"Thank you." Tony doesn't know what you're supposed to say in this kind of situation. Words seem inadequate.

They sit, once again, in silence. Tony's heart lurches and pounds in his chest. Maybe if he's lucky it'll give out before Zemo comes back for them.

"You know," Stark says, and he must be a lunatic because he's actually _smiling_ , "this isn't actually the worst I've seen him."

Apparently they're talking about this. Tony can't talk about this. "What the hell could you have seen that would be worse than this?"

Stark shrugs, like it means nothing, but it can't possibly. "Once I went to hell and fought a demon that looked like him. He spent the entire fight yelling that I was a nancy-boy—and all his other favorite insults—and trying to punch me. So, you know." He's looking off into the distance. "Just like old times, only more demonic."

What the hell? No part of that is like old times. "Christ," Tony says. "I'm sorry. It sounds like he was... a different man, where you come from. It sounds like he wasn't kind to you. I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Stark shrugs again. "You don't need to pretend he was a good father, you know." He's still looking away. "You don't need to lie to me about that. You can lie to everyone else, if you want, but not me."

Oh God. Maybe this is why Stark is broken. Maybe it started here.

"Tony," Tony says, and Stark's shaking in the chains. "I'm not lying. He was. He was good to me."

"Define _good_ ," Stark says, like it's a trap.

"You know," Tony says, and he tries to hold out his hands, but the chains stop him. "Good. He was a good man. A good father. Not perfect, but, well, the only one I had." He takes a breath. "I was young when he went off to war. He fought in the Great War, of course; everyone did. He was captured at the Battle of the Argonne Forest. He and Jarvis were prisoners of war. I didn't know it then, but that was when they began to make him into Zemo. After the armistice he came home—I was eight then—and he— he wanted to make it so men didn't have to fight. He wanted robots to fight, instead of men, so no one would have to suffer the way he had. He was trying to design them. Robot suits and robot tanks. Hell, probably even robot planes, like he's working on here. I'd hear him wake at night, screaming, and I didn't—" the words catch in his throat— "I didn't know what he was dreaming about, not then. But I knew he was brave, he'd been brave, and he loved me. He spent as much time with me as he could. He knew I wanted to go on adventures too—I was too young, I think, to really understand the war—but he wanted me to be safe. He wanted me to be happy and safe most of all. He used to say, 'A hero is a man too frightened to run away,' you know, and I— I think about that a lot, these days." He pauses and tries to blink back the tears. "And then they— a couple years later, they faked his death and took him away. And I thought he was dead until '39. And I guess he is dead. What's left of him is his body and the pieces of his mind that can read a damn blueprint. Every part of him that loved me is dead. But he did love me. I'll always know that."

He takes a breath to try to compose himself and looks over, to gauge Stark's reaction.

Stark is _sobbing_. Tears are rolling down his face, and his chest heaves silently. His eyes are glassy, wet, bloodshot, and he's still crying, even as Tony watches.

The rasping breaths slow. Stark is hanging in his chains, staring straight ahead, like he's looking through the world, seeing nothing.

"I've never told anyone about him." The words are quiet and raw. "Not the whole of it. Bits and pieces at AA meetings, sometimes." He pauses. "Is there AA here yet? Alcoholics Anonymous. Is that a thing now?"

Tony's heard of it. "I read a magazine article about it a couple years back. I don't— I'm not a member." He doesn't have a drinking problem. He drinks socially and, for that matter, less than most people he knows.

"Yeah." Stark's exhalation is sharp. "You don't seem like you'd need to be."

"Not really," Tony says evenly, and he feels so very sorry for his other self, and there's nothing he can do.

"I know it sounds worse than it is," Stark says, like he's trying to make _him_ feel better. "You're probably imagining it as worse than it was. It wasn't like— it wasn't some tragic story where he set out to beat me every night. He was drunk, a lot, and sometimes he just wasn't careful about how tightly he was grabbing me when he was mad—" Tony's stomach turns over, because how the hell can he even make excuses for this— "and besides, I wasn't the easiest kid to live with, I'm sure."

"If you tell me you deserved any of it, _I'll_ punch you," Tony says, and then he's immediately horrified by himself.

Stark laughs harshly. "Wasn't going to," he says, but Tony thinks maybe he was. "In _my_ universe, see, his favorite phrase was 'Stark men are made of iron,' and I just— well, I was a disappointment. I was weak. Soft. He taught me to down hard liquor when I was... six, maybe? He wanted to make me a real man. I remember, because he was finally, finally proud of me." He smiles a very little smile and Tony wants to be sick. "Sent me off to boarding school when I was seven. He wanted to toughen me up. As you can see, that worked out fabulously, darling." Stark lisps the last two words, and Tony's pretty sure he gets the joke. Even the future has fairies.

Tony can't quite piece this together. "He— did he _catch_ you with—?"

Stark shakes his head. "For the most part I slept with women. Built up a pretty good reputation. I don't think he ever had proof. Not that there weren't always rumors. There have always been. But he knew. He knew when I was a kid, didn't he?"

Tony can't imagine growing up like that.

"And look at you now," Tony says. "You're fucking Captain America."

Stark starts laughing. And then he stops. "He'd probably have killed me."

"You going to tell me you deserve _that_?"

"No," Stark says, instantly. "God, no. I'm not ashamed of Steve. I could never be." He tilts his chin up, a scrap of defiance showing through.

He'll stand up for everyone except himself. Tony is really, really glad he doesn't live in that universe. Christ.

"You poor bastard," Tony says, and means it.

"Excuse _you_ ," Stark says, with another horrible grin, "my parents were married." He takes a shaky breath. "I'm— we're planning on being out, anyway. When we get home." He says it like he thinks they're getting home. It's nice that someone here is an optimist. "That'll be interesting. Because, well, I'm not. Out. To anyone. And Steve— well, Steve's never." He leaves the sentence unfinished and chuckles. "God, they're all going to think I turned him gay, aren't they?"

Tony thinks maybe he's missed something. "What do you mean, out?"

"Out of the closet," Stark says, and then he squints. "Oh, right. Words from the future. Uh. We'd let people know we're a couple."

Tony stares. "People?" He can imagine telling Pepper and Rhodey, and probably Jarvis, but that's it.

"Sure," Stark says, and he has to be pulling his leg now. "People. Everyone. We can probably get some kind of tasteful interview. Sympathetic journalist. Photoshoot. The works."

"You'd tell _the entire world_?" This is an awful thing to joke about. Why is he joking about this?

"Sure, of course," Stark repeats, confused. "I mean, Steve's not Army anymore, SHIELD's actually got great same-sex partner benefits, and it's bound to come out anyway. I'd much rather have a nice, friendly interview about bisexuality than a few unflattering photos leaked to the tabloids, and— oh." He pauses. "It's legal. Not for the military, not yet, but it is absolutely legal for the rest of us. Doesn't mean everyone _likes_ it, but you can't get arrested for it. I promise. Some places, you can even get married. Legally married. In front of a judge and everything."

He can't even imagine that. The future. "Well," Tony says. "Now I'm jealous."

Stark stares evenly back. "And you have no idea how much I envy you."

This has got to be the worst conversation of Tony's life.

"Don't envy me too much. I'm about to be the next Baron Zemo."

Stark looks at him, and then he blinks, and he is transformed. Tony knows he's hurt, knows he's broken, but he's still alive and he's going to win. He recognizes that. Hell, he's been there too. Understanding shines across Stark's face like the sun rising. He has a plan. Somehow, he can get them out of this. "No," he breathes. "No, you're not."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Stark says, and he's looking at him with every single scrap of focus brought to bear, and Tony can kind of see now why people think it's intimidating when it's him, "I mean we're getting out of here." He breathes the next words so quietly that Tony nearly can't hear him. "You're going to take the Power Gem."

Tony just stares at him. "How the hell do you think I can do that?" He rattles his wrists. "Little bit tied up here."

"It's not about getting your hands on it," Stark says. His face is bright now, so bright, animated, risen so high that no one would ever believe he'd just been sobbing his eyes out. "It's— well, it's more like the Sword in the Stone," he says, and pauses like he expects the comparison to be natural.

"You're going to tell me that's real too?"

Stark grins crookedly. "Wouldn't you like to know?" He coughs. "Anyway, my point is that, in a sense, the Gem picks. It's not about being in physical contact with it, or not solely about that. You just— you have to believe you can take it, and believe harder than the person who's currently holding it. It's harder the more Gems they have—or so I hypothesize—but he only has one. And you can take it. You just have to know you can."

"If _you_ know you can—"

"I haven't done it, exactly," Stark says. He bites his lip. "And I'm a lot better at believing in other people. So how about I believe in you, and you believe in you, and nobody dies?"

He thinks this is Stark's idea of motivation. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you the person on your superhero team whose job it is to give the inspiring speeches?"

"Hell, no." Stark laughs. "Steve always does it. I've been giving them in his absence. I'm pretty bad at it."

"Yeah," Tony says. "That's what I thought."

"Oh, fuck you," Stark shoots back, and they're both laughing when the door opens again.

They fall silent. Tony takes a breath.

Showtime.

* * *

Two Hydra agents trail behind Zemo when he enters the room again; one is heavily armed, and the other one carries another set of bottles, setting them down in a neat line next to the bottles that are already sitting on the counter next to the exam table. The Power Gem gleams a sinister red at Zemo's throat, and Tony wonders, crazily, how Stark can even suggest that he steal it. This can't work, can it?

_Believe_ , he reminds himself. _You have to believe you can do it. This is your only hope._ Besides, it's not like he hasn't done things that other people would consider just as unbelievable. This is only another one. He can do this. He has to.

"You two seemed very jovial as I came in," Zemo observes. "Is there any particular reason for your merriment?"

Tony thinks that with any other villain Stark would definitely have made some smartass remark, the way he did before he knew who Zemo was. Now Stark says nothing, eyes fixed on Zemo, on his hooded face.

"Ah, I see." Zemo chuckles. "The time for jests is over." His head turns, and Tony can tell he's looking at each of them. "Have you decided which of you should be the first to undergo the treatment?"

It has to be him. It has to be him if they want the chance to escape. Stark said the drugs wouldn't work on him, and he's clearly not in a state where he can believe in his own ability to do anything right now.

He needs to get Zemo to pick him.

He thinks volunteering might actually work.

Tony lifts his head. "Me," he says, and his voice resounds, loud, unafraid. "It's going to be me."

Zemo turns, tilting his head, clearly trying to gauge how serious he is. He glances over at Stark, who is sagging in his bonds, seemingly not aware of his surroundings, but that's a trick. An exaggeration. Maybe not much of one, but it has to be an exaggeration.

"Mmm," Zemo says, contemplatively, regarding Stark, and then he turns to Tony. "He seems too broken to present a true challenge for the Zemo technique, but perhaps he'll take notice when you begin to scream, yes?"

Tony just got the man who used to be his father to agree to torture him and somehow this is supposed to be a victory. He stares right back, and he doesn't know what Zemo sees in his face, but it has to be something he approves of, because he motions the two Hydra agents over.

"Very well." Zemo nods at the agents. "Move him to the table. And, Tony, if you act up—" He doesn't even bother finishing the sentence. He has the Power Gem. He can do anything he wants.

_Anything except win_ , Tony tells himself. _He's an empty shell. A husk. An implanted personality. You are stronger than that. You have to be_.

Now isn't the time to make his move. He feels like he needs to be closer to Zemo, to feel like he could grab the Gem. It will be easier for him to believe he can do it if it's within arm's reach. So he lets the agent without the gun fumble for a key for his restraints; there's a jingle and a bright glint of metal, and then there are hands at Tony's bound wrists. All the pressure slackens, he drops his arms, and blood rushes painfully back into his fingers along with the pins-and-needles of returning sensation. He hisses and shakes his hands out.

The other guard has his gun trained on him, and his finger slides to the trigger when Tony moves.

"I'm not trying anything," Tony says. _Yet_. "I just got all the feeling back in my hands. It hurts."

Zemo chuckles. "That will soon be the least of your worries." He motions curtly to the agent who had the key. "Bring him."

The Hydra agent grabs his arm and hauls him up. Tony staggers on his feet, off-balance. He's had worse, he knows. He can do this. His heart lurches in his chest again and he knows he'd better make a move soon, because he doesn't have much of a charge left. He wonders if Stark's ever run into this situation before, when he had a broken heart like Tony's, in danger and almost out of battery. Probably. They're the same person, he thinks, as he lets the agent drag him across the room. Tony can feel himself starting to sweat, cold and clammy. He's not feeling so great. But he has to do this. He has to last long enough to save them.

Zemo watches. The hood is impassive, of course, but Tony imagines that Zemo is probably smiling.

"Leg dich auf den Tisch," the Hydra agent says, roughly, and he doesn't need to tell Tony twice.

Tony climbs up on the table and lies down, shivering a little against the cold metal. He lets the Hydra agent buckle him into the restraints. He really hopes this is going to work.

Zemo's still a little too far away, but then Zemo gestures the agent back and steps closer and closer still. He's at Tony's side now. He reaches for the first vial; in his other hand he has a large, nasty-looking syringe.

In Tony's fantasies, the fantasies he hadn't realized he was having until this moment, this is where Zemo stops, because there's something left of Howard Stark in him, something that realizes what he's about to do to his own son.

Zemo doesn't stop.

So much for that, then.

Tony looks up, past Zemo's hands, to the Power Gem. And then something— something happens. It catches the light, maybe, or maybe it's glowing from within, but it sparkles, and as Tony focuses on the light something about the shine of it dazzles his eyes, and he's looking and looking and then all at once he's not looking with his eyes. He can _feel_ it in his head. He has the impression of something vast, timeless, a bottomless well of energy, something bigger than wars, something bigger than humanity. It feels slow, old, an ancient intelligence moving in the depths. Tony's a swimmer in a dark ocean and the leviathan passes beneath him, unconcerned. And through it he can tell Zemo is there, pressing it down, keeping a rein on it.

He can't wake it. He can't grab it, because Zemo is just a little too focused. Even as Zemo draws liquid from the vial into the syringe and taps it to let the bubbles gather, he's— well, Stark had called it _leaning on the Gem_ , and that more or less describes it. It feels like there's a weight on it, something Tony can't shift. While Zemo is paying any attention to the Gem, Tony can't take it. This won't be easy.

Tony uses what feels like the last of his strength, as his heart gives another lurch, to turn his head to the other side. He can see Stark, still sagging in his bonds. The Hydra agents are all watching Zemo. No one's even looking at Stark.

But Stark's looking back at him, through eyes that are almost shut. And then he raises one hand, still bound, palm out. He folds down his thumb. Four. He folds down another finger. He's _counting_. Three. Two. One.

Zero. Stark's holding a clenched fist high, and the barest of determined grins flickers across his face.

"Excuse me," Stark calls out. "I'd just like to say something, before you begin."

Tony thinks Zemo stops moving, but he can't really turn his head back to look. God, his chest hurts. If that was meant to be a distraction, it's not going to be enough.

"Oh?" Zemo laughs. "Now you want to talk? Talk if you like, but do not think that your words can save him from his fate."

Stark smiles the fey smile of a soldier about to lead a charge against an entire battle line. "I just had a comment to make about the wiring of this place," he says, almost casually. "I think it's great that you're using the Power Gem to replace the generator I broke. I can definitely get behind that. Good plan. You do want to keep the power on here, I'm sure. So of course you're ensuring that you have electricity. But I think—" he says, and Tony knows that look, because he's grinning like a madman, he's grinning like he's going to die and he wants to be a goddamn hero first— "I think it's even more interesting if you consider what could happen if someone disabled some of the circuit breakers, did a little rerouting, and then turned all the backup generators on. All of them. At once."

Stark grins again. He clenches his fist tighter. There's something faraway in his eyes, like he's talking to someone who isn't there.

Half the lights in the room explode.

And Tony just _reaches_ for the Gem, he reaches with his mind, with his bound hands, and in this moment of inattention Zemo's grasp on the Gem is just a fraction looser. _Mine_ , he tells it. _You are mine_. His heart pounds, one, two, three, his fingers are outstretched, he's rubbing his wrists raw on the restraints—

And then the red glow at Zemo's throat winks out and Tony closes his fist around something small and hot and bright. It's like holding a star in his palm.

_Yes_ , something that isn't him says in his head, and he feels his heart lurch and surge with power, the repulsor pump within him charging up amazingly painlessly, the constriction relaxed. He's going to make it.

Amid the nightmare of flickering lights and falling shards of glass, Zemo looks down, and his hand goes to the missing space at his own throat, the space where the Gem isn't.

"No!" Zemo snarls, a wail of frustration—

And Tony sits up, ripping out of the restraints like they're made of paper, and he holds his fist high. A shockwave of crimson energy bursts out of the Gem, first hitting Zemo, then one Hydra agent, then the other, streaming across the room and slamming into the walls, cracking the stone just above Stark's head, shaking the entire building.

Zemo falls.

The Hydra agents likewise crumple to the floor.

The room is silent.

Stark looks up at him, raises his hand in a pilot's thumbs-up sign, and smiles. "Hell of a show you put on there."

"Same to you. Couldn't have done it without you," Tony says, boosting himself off the table. He bends down to put two fingers to Zemo's wrist.

"Is he—?"

"Alive," Tony says, feeling the pulse beat strong under his fingers, and Stark relaxes.

"Good," Stark breathes, relieved, although Tony suspects that a myriad of more complicated feelings underlie that particular word. "Hey," Stark adds, "you want to do me a solid and get me out of here?"

"Do you a what?" Tony asks, because he's starting to think the future has awfully bizarre words and Stark seems to be on a mission to use all of them. Stark opens his mouth. "You know what? Never mind. Getting you out of there."

He picks his way carefully across the floor, mindful of the glass—because he left his boots outside when he put the armor on, and he's still barefoot—and eventually he makes it to Stark's side of the room.

He looks down at the restraints. He's not sure where the key ended up. Stark wiggles his fingers. The Power Gem gleams. He might as well take the easy way out, he thinks, and he rips the chains out of the wall as easily as pulling up a blade of grass.

Wow. He wonders if this is how Steve feels all the time.

With another twist of power, what's left of the manacles falls to the floor. Stark pushes himself upright, wincing and rubbing at his wrists. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Tony tells him. "My heart's a lot better now, by the way."

"Glad to hear it."

"So," Tony asks, "what's next on the agenda?"

Stark ticks the items off on his gold-covered fingers. "Find Steve. Assemble the Gauntlet. Find my armor. Find everyone else. Get the fuck out of here. Go home."

Tony likes that plan. "You don't want to assemble the Gauntlet and use it to find Steve?"

"Tempting." But Stark shakes his head. "No, if I run into difficulty with that, I want all the help I can get. Definitely a good idea to have Cap backing me up when we go for the Gauntlet. And he's probably closer than my suit is, anyway, so it'll be easier to find him first. Besides," he says, and he doesn't finish the sentence, but Tony knows what he's thinking: he's worried about him.

"He'll be fine," Tony says, encouragingly. "Takes more than this to bring down Captain America, doesn't it?"

"All it takes is a gun," Stark says, in a voice that Tony never wants to hear again in his entire life. He takes a deep breath and somehow summons up composure from somewhere. He's holding on, but barely. "Right. Move out?"

Tony looks down at himself. "I want shoes first."

"That can be arranged," Stark says, and he promptly strides across the room. Glass crunches under his feet, and Tony remembers that he'd said his odd golden suit was knifeproof. Stark doesn't seem concerned, anyway. He grabs the gun off the closest Hydra agent—presumably for himself—and then turns back. "Which boots do you want? Howard's won't fit us, so you can have any color as long as it's yellow."

Tony laughs, because he finally gets one of his counterpart's damn jokes. "Yellow it is."

* * *

Tony's new boots are bright yellow. They're not exactly his size. He supposes that is the least of today's events that he could complain about.

"Here's the plan," Stark says, when they're in the corridor. He touches him on the arm, like he thinks he might not have Tony's full attention. In a sense, he doesn't; Tony can't stop being aware of the Gem, as if it's created a haze over his mind. "This level looks like a good candidate to contain all of their holding facilities, so _I'm_ going to walk up and down this hallway yelling Steve's name repeatedly and if anyone who isn't Steve comes to see us, _you're_ going to punch them in the face with the Power Gem."

Tony frowns. "That's not really a plan."

"Yeah, well," Stark says. He lifts his gun. "I'm not feeling real creative right now." And then he turns. "Hey, Steve!" he yells down the corridor, just like he said he would. "Cap!"

Tony rolls his eyes and follows.

Ten minutes later, Tony has personally rendered at least five more Hydra agents unconscious. He's not sure Stark has actually noticed; he just seems to be growing more and more agitated. He wasn't kidding when he said he wanted to find Rogers first.

They're at the last door on this level, next to a stairwell. And this time, when Stark calls out "Steve!" there is an answering muffled cry.

"Tony?" It's definitely Rogers' voice.

"Thank God," Stark breathes.

Inside the room there's the sound of fists connecting with flesh, and Stark guesses that Rogers isn't alone, and that the Hydra agents in the room don't want him to make his presence known. Too bad.

Stark tries the doorknob. It's locked.

"Don't say I never did anything for you," Tony says. He rips the door off its hinges and flings it behind him into the corridor. He still thinks Rebirth was a suicidal project, but he's beginning to see the appeal of superhuman strength.

There's not really time to size up the room or the situation, but it seems like Stark can react faster—like he can even _think_ faster—because the instant the door is out of the way, Stark is inside and firing. By the time Tony gets inside it's almost all over. Two Hydra agents are down, and there's a yellow-suited figure—AIM again?—in the corner. Stark's pistol clicks, out of bullets, and Tony shrugs and knocks the AIM scientist into unconsciousness with a blast of energy from the Power Gem.

There's no more movement in the room and he takes a breath and looks around. It's another laboratory space; this one has a centrifuge spinning away in the corner, and test tubes on racks, and he can't quite figure out what they're for. It looks like Stark deliberately shot a couple of the tubes, because there are bullet holes in the wall and a puddle of what looks like blood underneath the rack. He turns around to ask Stark, but Stark is already across the room—because Rogers is there, bound standing against the wall, in restraints that look to be much more solid than the chains that kept the two of them down. Adamantium.

"Hey," Rogers is saying, low and easy, like he's trying to soothe a wild creature. The cowl is shoved back. Tony guesses that's where his miniature radio is; removing that had clearly cut off his contact with Stark. There's a fresh bruise on his face. He's missing a glove. His sleeve is rolled up and there's a smear of drying blood on his arm, on the inside of his elbow. "Hey, Tony, shh, I'm okay," he says. "This is nothing new. If I had a dollar for every time someone stole my blood to try to replicate the serum, I'd be as rich as you, eh, Shellhead?"

He can't see Stark's face; Stark has tipped his head against Rogers' shoulder; his hands are splayed out over Rogers' chest, like he can protect him with his body.

"Steve," Stark breathes. "You took that blast for me, and I thought— I thought—"

Stark leans up and kisses Rogers, like he doesn't care that they're in public, like he doesn't care that anyone's watching them. It's like he thinks there's no one else in the world. Like he has nothing to hide.

Tony feels like he shouldn't be watching this, this private moment. His mind goes automatically to Steve, who is hopefully still destroying planes with Bucky. He doesn't know if they're all right, and a pang of jealousy twists through him: it's his counterpart who gets these assurances, not him.

"I'm all right. I'm healed. I'm okay," Rogers repeats, voice still soft. And then he flexes his fists and pushes against the shackles. "I'd appreciate some help getting out of this, though, if you're so inclined."

"Can do," Stark says, and then he seems to remember Tony is still here. He turns around. "Hey, can I borrow that for a second?"

Tony tosses the Power Gem across the room. He feels the attenuation of his connection with it in his mind, a fraying string that snaps entirely the instant the Gem lands in Stark's hand.

Rogers smiles. "You got it? The Power Gem?"

"We got it," Stark says. His face furrows in concentration, and he directs the smallest possible plume of red energy toward the locks on the adamantium chains, like a surgeon wielding a scalpel.

Metal clicks open, and Rogers lurches forward. Stark immediately wraps his arms around him again, clinging to him. Rogers hugs him back, but when he lets go, Stark is still holding onto him, like he never wants to stop touching him, like there's some way he can feel better if only he presses as much of himself to Rogers as he can.

"You all right, Avenger?" Rogers asks, and Stark shakes his head.

"No," Stark says, and he makes a choking noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Tony knows exactly why Stark isn't all right, because he was the one keeping secrets from him, wasn't he? "God, no. I am so incredibly far from all right. But I've got to be all right, so that's what I'm going to be."

Stark draws back and stands up straight. 

"Okay." Stark takes a breath. "Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to summon the Gauntlet. I'm going to use the Gauntlet to find my suit, since they've blocked my usual connection to it. Then I'm going to make us a portal to the courtyard. We're going to find the other Invaders. We're going to— we're going to get him. We're going to rescue him. And we're all going to get out of here."

Wait, what?

"You can't be serious," Tony says, incredulously. "You can't— we can't rescue him. There's _nothing left_."

He's Zemo, Tony thinks. He's Zemo through and through. Tony can't think of him as Howard Stark. He definitely can't think of him as his father. That man is dead. He may as well have died twenty-five years ago in the Argonne Forest. The result is the same.

Zemo was seconds away from injecting him with the first of the drugs. He wouldn't have stopped. There's no conditioning to break through, nothing there that can be undone, because there's nothing underneath. The man whose body Zemo now inhabits is gone.

Stark's face is pale, but he stands his ground. "We can't just _leave him_ ," he says, and the words are an awful snarl.

"We can," Tony says, and he feels like a goddamn monster but there's nothing he can do. "We can, and we have to. There's nothing we can do for him." He holds out his hands. "Believe me, I wish it could be different. There's no one on Earth who wants him back more than I do. But it's _not him_."

Rogers holds up his bare hand and looks between the two of them, confusion writ large on his face. "Rescue who? Would one of you explain what's going on here?"

Stark swallows hard. His mouth works, but he says nothing.

"Baron Zemo," Tony says, because if he lets Stark name him he's as good as lost the fight. "He wants to rescue Zemo."

Stark glares.

" _Zemo_?" Rogers asks, and it's clear that that was the last thing he was expecting to hear. "What? Why?"

"Steve," Stark says, pleading. "They— it's _brainwashing_ , it's— Zemo isn't the same man as he is at home. They steal scientists, they rip out their goddamn souls, and they leave the knowledge behind."

Rogers has gone ashen, deathly pale from the moment the word _brainwashing_ crossed Stark's lips. He sways a little. "Jesus Christ, not again," he rasps, and clearly there's something here Tony's missing, but now doesn't seem like the time to ask. "Who is it, then?" Rogers asks, and the expression on his face is pure agony.

"You can't _save him_ ," Tony says, because it's like neither of them seem to understand the goddamn hideous truth. It's unbelievably cruel of them to do this to him, to pretend that the man who used to be his father is someone who can be saved, that there's something left of him to save at all. "It doesn't matter, because he's dead already—"

"It's someone we know," Rogers ventures. "On our Earth."

Stark shakes his head. "You never met him, as far as I know. Thank God for that. He was around during the war but it would have been the Manhattan Project for him all the way, or possibly even the shit they still haven't declassified, who knows."

Whatever that is, it's above Tony's clearance level, if it exists here. Rogers is frowning at him; he can't figure out who Stark would know that he doesn't. Tony supposes that if they've known each other for a decade, it's a reasonable reaction. 

"Who is it?" Rogers repeats, a little more sternly.

Tony sighs. "Zemo was Howard Stark. Zemo was my father, okay?" He holds up his hands. "And, yes, I knew it was him before we came here." Time to disappoint Captain America. And then he can tell Steve when Steve makes it up here, disappoint _him_ , and be three-for-three on this fucked-up mission.

Horrified, Rogers stares back at him. His mouth is half-open in shock. "Dear God," Rogers says, quietly. "I'm so, so sorry."

"You don't want to call me a lying sadistic asshole?"

Rogers glances at Stark like he knows exactly where Tony picked that one up.

"We might have had words," Stark says. His face is pale, but his mouth twitches a little. "I was very stressed."

"I bet," Rogers says, and there's an awful kind of pity in his eyes that he obviously knows better than to give voice to, but he reaches out and rubs Stark's shoulder. Stark leans into the touch.

"This is _fixable_ ," Stark says, eyeing Tony like he doesn't expect him to believe him but like he has to try anyway. "Steve's been brainwashed. _I've_ been brainwashed. More than once. For fuck's sake, _Bucky_ was—"

"I thought you said we weren't talking about that," Rogers says, and God, his _face_ —

" _Fuck_ secrets," Stark says, his words full of unexpected bitter vehemence, and he looks like he wants to cry. Again. "My point is, _we can fix this_."

"Maybe you can," Tony says, because he can't believe in this, because he can't let himself believe in this. "Maybe you can, with whatever you've got in your goddamn wonderful future. But I can't."

"Okay." Rogers says. He clears his throat. "Okay. This is not a great time or place for a discussion. How about this? We do the rest of what we need to do first, and then— then we see if there's anything we can do about your father."

"All right," Stark says.

Tony nods. "Fine." Not that there will be anything. At most they can put him out of his misery.

He imagines a future where the war's over, a future where brainwashing is something someone can just shrug off, a future where he can stand up and tell the world he's in love with Steve Rogers and the world will be _happy_ for him.

Some fellas have all the luck.

* * *

The next step on the increasingly off-course plan is the Infinity Gauntlet, Tony knows, but Stark doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get to it. He's holding the Power Gem in his palm and he bestows more and more skeptical glances at it, like he's afraid to use it. Tony would offer to do it for him, but he's not exactly sure how to do what Stark was talking about. He hadn't sensed the other Gems when he was holding it; then again, he was a little preoccupied at the time.

There's a noise that sounds a whole lot like an explosion. The lights flicker.

Tony looks over at Stark, because it was Stark's doing last time, wasn't it?

"Not me," Stark says instantly.

There's the clatter of boots in the hallway. Tony glances around the room, looking for weapons. Stark had the only gun, and he's out of bullets. Rogers' energy shield is nowhere to be seen. From the looks on Stark's and Rogers' faces, they've come to the same conclusion.

"Fuck it," Stark says, under his breath, and he turns toward the door. "Guess I'm up. Everyone get behind me."

Tony doesn't understand until he sees Stark take a few steps toward the door and clench his fist tight around the Power Gem. The air crackles, and there's a little glowing halo of red light around his still-golden fist. He's charging up. His mouth is an awful determined line, and Tony thinks maybe Stark is a little too twitchy right now to play lookout.

"You stole that pose from Carol," Rogers murmurs, like he knows exactly what to say to calm him down. Rogers knows him. The distraction was clearly the right thing—Stark's still on guard, but he relaxes to the point where he no longer looks like he's wound up enough to accidentally punch a hole in the wall. Or take half the building out, or all of Italy, or whatever the Power Gem is capable of.

"If it works, use it." Stark chuckles. "I could add a sash like she's got. You think I've got the hips for it? Or I could try some of those thigh boots, with the heels. Bet they'd do wonders for my legs, huh?"

"I am not having the rest of this conversation in public," Rogers says, and Stark just grins back at him.

The footsteps are at the doorway.

"Hands up!" Stark calls out, and Tony supposes it's nice of him to give them a warning, assuming they speak English.

"Don't shoot!" a voice yells back, and oh God, it's _Steve_. The wave of relief that surges through Tony makes him stagger on his feet. "Friendly, friendly, don't shoot!"

Steve and Bucky fall through the doorway in a blur of red and blue uniforms; the light of the Power Gem, dimming in Stark's fist as he dials down the energy, glints off the metal of Steve's shield.

"Oh, thank God," says Rogers, from somewhere behind him, sounding very much like he hadn't expected either of them to be alive. Tony would have thought he'd be more confident in... well, in himself.

Tony can't really focus on that, because he's too busy staring at Steve. Steve's clearly been through a fight; his uniform is dirty, ripped and singed in more than a few places, and spattered with something that looks a hell of a lot like blood. Tony hopes to God it's someone else's. But Steve's grinning at him, bright and trusting and utterly _adoring_ , and yeah, that's the look right there, that's the exact look that made Tony take him to bed in the first place. He wants so badly to kiss him, but Bucky's here and Bucky doesn't know—about _any_ of them—and just because Tony thinks the Army can't afford to give Captain America a blue ticket doesn't mean they can't make their lives hell if word gets back to HQ.

"I missed you," Steve breathes, like there's no one here but Tony.

"I missed you too," Tony says, and he's smiling so hard he thinks his face might break. "Thought you were supposed to be punching airplanes. What happened to the plan?"

Steve shrugs. "Finished punching airplanes. Got lonely."

"He was worried when you weren't at the rendezvous point," Bucky says, and Steve jumps like he's forgotten there are other people in the room. "Insisted on coming back. So we came to find you. Thought maybe the room where someone had ripped a door clean off might have had at least a super-soldier in it, and hopefully the rest of you."

"That was me, actually," Tony volunteers. "I took the door off."

Steve's eyes widen. "You got some hidden talents you never told me about?"

"Oh, lots of them. I'll have to show you sometime," Tony says, breezily, and God, Steve's adorable when he's flustered. "But in this particular case it was the Power Gem."

Stark obligingly holds up the Gem between thumb and forefinger. It gleams.

"Excellent." Steve looks pleased. "Objective accomplished. And everything that flies is in ruins, and most of the courtyard was on fire when we left it. Torch got himself one of those big green ray guns. Did you know stone can melt?"

Tony can picture it now. "I'm sure he's having fun."

"He's having the time of his life," Bucky says, cheerfully. "Toro and Namor seem pretty pleased so far. Toro really likes those grenades." He addresses the last remark to Stark.

"Good." Stark's reply is brisk. "Well, you're just in time to watch me do a magic trick."

"I thought you hated magic," Rogers says, in an undertone, and it must be another private joke between them because Stark cracks a smile.

"Quiet, you," Stark murmurs, but his gaze is full of affection. He raises his voice. "Anyway, this is a little number I like to call Making Five Infinity Gems Appear Out Of Thin Air."

"Space first?" Rogers asks.

Stark nods. "The first is going to be the hardest, but I figured it should be the one we needed the most. So Space, then Time, and anything else is a bonus."

Stark holds his hands out flat, palms up. The gold suit somehow melts away, and his hands are bare now. The Power Gem glows red in the palm of his left hand. Tony watches Stark's chest rise and fall as he takes slow, even breaths. His eyes slide shut.

Nothing happens.

"I can do this," Stark murmurs. "We _did_ this." Whatever _that_ means. "We did this, so I can do this, so why the hell isn't it—?" He shakes his head. This can't be it. He can't give up. "Network errors," Stark says, and Tony has no clue what those are but they can't be good. "It's like I'm out of range. Poor signal strength on the Wi-Fi."

"When you did it before, you didn't do it by yourself," Rogers says, and at least someone understands what's going on here, because Tony sure doesn't. "You said the summoning works because the Gems have an affinity for each other. Maybe you can't do it alone. Maybe you need someone with— with an affinity for you."

Stark smiles weakly. "It's a sweet theory, Winghead, but I don't think—"

Rogers interrupts him. "Humor me," he says, and he slides his bare right hand over Stark's left palm, where the Power Gem sits, and he interlocks their fingers, trapping the Gem between their hands.

"You can hold my hand anytime you want," Stark says, with a kind of acerbic fondness, "but it's not going to— oh—" He stops, and he can't seem to get a sentence out. "Oh God, Steve, I—"

"Telepathy," Rogers says. His eyes are blank, like he's looking at something that isn't in the room. He takes a shaking breath. "Thought that was the wrong Gem."

"Mind Gem's probably pretty close by," Stark says, and Tony thinks he might be crying. "We're getting some resonances of the power. Is that— you really feel—?"

"Of course," Rogers says, voice low and husky. "Of course it's how I feel, Tony."

Stark smiles. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay. _We_ can do this."

There's another pause.

There's no sign of any Gems.

Maybe they need more people.

Before Tony can really consider what he's doing, he's across the room, and he's grabbing Stark's other hand, and—

He's lying on a table, hard metal, and everything is cold. There are people above him: a man who looks like some kind of Norse god come to life, a man in a red suit, someone who Tony would swear was Jan Van Dyne if Jan were six inches tall and had wings, and a red and gold suit of armor that he knows instinctively is him, his counterpart, because those are his own eyes behind the mask, and he doesn't know who these people are but he does, of course he does—

And the vision flips, inverts, back in on itself and out again and now he's behind the mask looking down at the table, and it's Steve, it's _Steve_ , maybe a little older than he is now, and he's staring around at them and his gaze locks with Tony's and this is the best thing that's ever happened to him in his goddamn life, because Captain America is alive—

And he's standing in some kind of basement, and someone who looks sort of like the Norse fella is there again, and there's a guy who's silver head to toe, and there's him, his counterpart, standing there, wearing nothing but a shirt wrapped around his waist, and it's Tony, it was always Tony under the armor, and he always hoped— he always, always wanted it to be Tony—

And Steve's lying there, unconscious, and it's the Red Zone, it's the virus, and Steve's going to die, and as he rips off his helmet he knows exactly what he has to do—

And it's dawn in the skies overlooking New York, as he stands with Tony on the deck of something that is sort of like his airship but a thousand times more, and Tony's asking _you want to assemble a new team of Avengers?_ but he knows it happened, it already happened, it's fate, it's fate saying they should be together, and he smiles and says _like we always have_ and he puts his hand on Tony's shoulder and together they watch the sun come up—

A hand slides into his other hand.

And he's fifteen and he's saved up enough for the new issue of Marvels, and he curls up with it on his bed—he always likes to be alone to read Marvels—and he traces the lines of the picture of Tony on the cover with two thin fingers and he wonders what it would be like to meet Tony Stark, to go on an adventure with Tony Stark, maybe even to kiss Tony Stark—

And he's standing in a hallway in the Van Dynes' mansion and he knows Steve is in the room behind him and Steve's shipping out tomorrow and he wants nothing more than to turn around and walk back in and kiss him again—

The memories snap back, and forward, and then he's on the streets of New York, a New York he doesn't recognize, and he's on the grounds of some kind of factory, and he holds out his hand and slips an EMP into Tony's palm— 

_Don't do this_ , someone thinks, anguished. _Don't make me do this to you again_.

And he's lying on his back and his armor is shattered around him and there's blood on his face, dripping down the back of his throat, and Steve is above him, and Steve is looking at him like he doesn't even know him anymore, and he's raising his shield, and Tony opens his mouth, and he wants to die, and he knows exactly what he's going to say, he knows exactly what he said—

_Tony, no_ , someone thinks, but they can't stop him.

And he's still lying there, on that street, and he takes a breath and he says what he should have said, he says _I love you_ and he says _I've always loved you_ and _I'm sorry_ and _I forgive you_ and _it wasn't worth it_ —

Someone is crying, regret and sorrow and a tentative joy mixed together.

_I've got you_ , someone thinks. _Shh. I've always got you_.

And then they're not four people. They're not even two. They're one.

Everything is perfectly still. He can feel the Power Gem, the way it did when he held it, but now it's connected to something, a tenuous, six-stranded web. He follows one of the strands out through the darkness, and a purple Gem sparkles, half-buried in sand, not yet found by anyone, and he _pulls_ —

The web snaps back, and the Gem comes with it, and it nestles into place next to the Power Gem. They have the Space Gem.

Tony tugs again on the web, and the next thing he can see is an orange Gem, closest to the purple, already quivering, edging in its direction, wanting to join the other two Gems, and it's sitting on a pedestal next to an armored man with a forest-green cloak, a man he knows he's seen in Fury's briefings, a man he's never met before, but at the same time he has—

_Holy shit, Doom has the Time Gem_ , he thinks, and it isn't quite him thinking it, except it is—

And they yank and the Time Gem cuts through the fabric of the universe and out the other side, the instant they think to bring it, and _good riddance, Victor_ —

The Time Gem settles next to the Power Gem and the Space Gem. Rogers and Stark can go home.

They keep going.

The Gem after that is yellow, and they pluck it out of the strange clawed hand of a man in a cat mask, and Tony thinks _sorry, T'Challa, I'll make it up to you_ even as he knows he's never met the king of Wakanda and has no idea who it is under the cat mask—

Reality ripples and a hard weight settles into Tony's hand, where he's holding Stark's hand. The Reality Gem is theirs.

A green Gem glimmers underwater, in the ruins of Atlantis, more precious than the orichalcum Tony found there, and they all drag the Gem up, and someone has it, Steve and his counterpart are holding hands, and they have the Soul Gem—

The last Gem is blue, and it's the one Stark had said was nearby, and they're diving into the Catacombs of Rome, and it snaps back so fast, like all it wanted was to join the rest. And it's the Mind Gem, and it's in Tony's hand, it's in Steve's hand, in their hands joined together, and he can feel it from both sides because they're one, because the Mind Gem makes them one, and nothing will ever be like this, and Steve is laughing in his head in delighted, overwhelmed happiness—

The Gauntlet. They have to make the Infinity Gauntlet. Reluctantly, Tony turns his hands up and lets the Gems he has float free into Stark's grasp, as everyone else does the same, and a golden gauntlet flashes into existence where before there was nothing, where Rogers is still gripping Stark's hand tight.

The Gems slot into place, red orange yellow green blue purple and _bright bright bright_ —

The inside of Tony's head shouts in numbers, in incomprehensible electrical pulses: 01101001 01101110 01100110 01101001 01101110 01101001 01110100 01111001—

He drops his hands and steps back and he's alone in his head. He's shaking and he thinks maybe he's happy but it's so much of _everything_ and he's never felt anything like that in his goddamn life and he'll never feel it again and he doesn't know what to do now.

They're all staring at each other with the same bereft look in their eyes as Tony feels in his head.

"What the hell was that?" Tony asks, because someone has to. Words feel inadequate now.

"Telepathy," Stark says, and the look in his eyes keeps flickering back and forth between happiness and terror and Tony kind of knows what that feels like. "And also the Infinity Gauntlet." The Gems shine as he flexes his fingers; at some point Rogers must have dropped his hand.

Rogers—who has tears on his face—is staring at Stark like he wants to reevaluate everything that ever happened between them in his entire life. Tony kind of knows what that feels like too.

"I saw that part, you making the Gauntlet," Bucky says, from the other side of the room. "Didn't think I should join in. I thought it would work better with just you four, what with you all being the same people."

That's probably for the best. There were a few things in there that Bucky shouldn't have seen. There were a few things in there that _Tony_ shouldn't have seen—God, they were _trying to kill each other_ —

But they're all right. They're all right now. Everyone's going to be fine. They've got to be.

Stark holds out the Infinity Gauntlet. "First up," he says, "my armor."

The plates of his armor appear at his feet, out of nowhere, and instantly they begin assembling around him, slotting into place. When he's done, the faceplate is pushed back, and—because he's already wearing the Infinity Gauntlet—there's a spare gauntlet sitting on the floor. He bends down and tosses this to Tony.

"You want me to wear this?"

"Sure," Stark says. "Hang on to it for me for a bit. Besides, it's not like it fits anyone else."

Tony slides it on and wiggles his fingers. Perfect fit, once again. The center palm piece is dim, but he figures it'll be pretty good for punching people, anyway.

A leather glove appears in Rogers' hands.

"Your energy shield, Cap," Stark says, and Rogers grins again as he tugs the glove on.

"Hey," Tony says. "What about me? Do I get any actual weapons I can use? Can I borrow your ray gun again?"

The ray gun falls into Tony's hands. When he looks up, Stark's smiling, and he has the sense that this is familiar for Stark, that he likes giving people things, providing for his people, outfitting them.

"Swell," Tony says. He's gotten really attached to this little thing. So sue him. He wonders if Stark will let him keep it.

"Anyone else?" Stark asks. "Need anything before we go punch some more Nazis? Last call."

Steve and Bucky both shake their heads.

"I already have a shield," Steve says, holding his up.

Rogers looks envious. "Rub it in, why don't you?"

"Shh," Stark says. "Don't be jealous. You've got one at home."

Bucky unslings his rifle. "No, thanks, Mr. Stark. I've got enough bullets."

Stark looks around at them, one final check, and then he flips his faceplate down; the eyeslits light up.

"Come on," he says, and he raises his fist high. Rainbows trail in the air. A portal opens, perpendicular to the ground, and through it Tony can see the courtyard they left, now with Torch, Toro and Namor fighting endless waves of Hydra agents.

So much for rescuing Zemo. They need to be out there.

Rogers grins. "Your turn to say it, Shellhead," he murmurs.

Stark's laugh, through the speakers, is like a pleased kind of static.

"Avengers," Stark yells, "assemble!"

And then he leaps through the portal, and Rogers switches the energy shield on and leaps through on his heels. Then, with Steve at his side, Tony runs and jumps and the world around him disappears into rainbows.

* * *

Tony may not be a superhero, but people have been shooting at him on a regular basis for over a decade, and he likes to think he's developed a sense about these things by now.

So the instant he's through the portal, Tony throws himself to the ground and lets the bullets fly harmlessly over his head. His face scrapes open on the stone, but it's better than the alternative. Next to him, Steve blocks them with his shield handily, because Steve's _got_ a shield, and damn Stark for opening a portal up into the _middle of the goddamn courtyard_ where there's no cover whatsoever. Ahead of him—Tony can sort of see, with his face pressed into the ground—Rogers is blocking bullets with his energy shield, and Stark, in a rippling rainbow haze, is dissolving anything that gets close to either of them with a cheerful unconcern for the laws of nature, alternating with blasts of energy from his other hand. They're prepared, all right, but it's like they weren't really thinking about those of them who aren't superheroes. Oh, well. Tony can take care of himself.

There's movement in the portal and it must be Bucky; as soon as Tony sees him blurring into reality he yells, "Get down!"

To his credit, Bucky drops immediately, practically falling through the portal, which snaps shut as soon as he's through.

Also half of the courtyard seems to be on fire. That half is currently mostly behind Tony, which is maybe how it escaped his attention until now, but— definitely on fire. In one section the wall has somehow melted to the ground, and he can see the trees beyond.

This is going to be the most interesting report he's ever made to Nick Fury.

"You okay?" Tony yells, and he thinks he sees Bucky nod.

Steve looks down and moves in front of them. They're not actually surrounded on all sides because not even the Hydra goons want to get close to the fire, but this is still far from Tony's ideal situation.

Bullets—and a few bright green energy blasts—ricochet off Steve's shield.

"Head left!" Bucky hollers back, and they crawl.

As it turns out, they're crawling in the direction of Torch and Toro, who seem to be in the center of an expanding ring of flame. At least they're on their side. It looks like they've each found one of those shoulder-mounted monstrosities that were melting stone earlier.

Steve is jogging alongside them, deflecting the rest of the bullets with ease, and there's enough of a gap in the fire for Tony to push up to his knees and then his feet. There are Hydra agents heading straight at them, too busy running away from Torch and Toro to pay enough attention to what they're running toward, and when they're almost on top of them Tony swings out with his borrowed gauntlet; the first agent goes down.

Bucky is firing and reloading and firing again, and Tony picks off a few more people with the ray gun.

Then there's another knot of Hydra agents—where the hell are they coming from?—and Steve can't hit them because he's busy covering Tony and Bucky. And then, thank God, Namor's there, and this is just a mess.

They're almost to Torch and Toro, and then they're there, and Tony leaps the line of flame and joins them, aware that next to him Bucky is doing the same thing, and then Namor, and then Steve. Steve arranges himself in front of the two of them, shield held high, guarding them both. Bucky, for whom this is clearly familiar, is half-crouched in Steve's shadow, peering around him, and he raises his gun and picks off someone on the ramparts—fuck, they're on the ramparts _again_?—before ducking back behind Steve's shield.

Then there's another figure running along the ramparts, glowing shield in his hand, and Tony has no idea how Rogers even got up there but he's running in a straight line, shield held in front of him, like nothing can even come close to touching him, and he's slamming Hydra agents off the walls like they're not even there. When he gets to the break in the wall—which has to be ten feet, easy, he vaults it and keeps running, and Tony's just staring, mouth open. He knows what Rebirth did, but he hasn't really seen Steve fight, and Rogers has been a super-soldier for— well, presumably decades. This is what it looks like when someone's spent years training, someone who can fight better than any man alive.

And at the end of the wall Rogers just _jumps_ , and Tony holds his breath because, Christ, he's high up, and as Rogers twists and arcs in midair he swings his arms wide—and then Stark's in the air, red and gold, the air haloing rainbow around him, and he catches Rogers like he knew exactly where he'd be, like they've done this a thousand times, and maybe they have. Something about it is beautiful. Graceful.

They're both flying toward him, toward the Invaders, and, God, there are even more Hydra agents pouring out the door. Can't they stop?

There has to be a better way to do this.

Stark's got an alien artifact that brought his world's Captain America _back to life._

Surely they can do better than this.

"Hey, genius!" Tony yells, when he thinks Stark's close enough to hear him. "Can you maybe work some fucking magic again?"

Okay, so he could be more polite, but he's had a trying day.

Stark laughs. "Sure thing!" he yells back. "I kind of wanted to punch a few more Hydra goons first, but we can skip to the end if you want." 

And then the Gauntlet on his hand glimmers—his arm is wrapped around Rogers' waist—and every single Hydra agent collapses.

Well, that's one way to end a fight.

The blue glow of Stark's boots dims, and he comes in for a landing. The flames start to die down; Tony thinks that's also Stark's doing. Rogers hops neatly off of Stark without waiting for him to set down.

"What do you think, Winghead?" Stark murmurs, once he's landed. He shoves the faceplate up and is grinning a pleased grin. "Would Wanda have been proud of me?"

Rogers smiles. "And here I thought you were going to say Strange. What with the shared taste in beards and all. You just, you know, need to get some distinguished gray going." He taps his temple, still smiling. "And be Sorcerer Supreme."

"I am never going in for Sorcerer Supreme. Imagine me in those capes." Stark mock-shudders. "No, I was thinking a reverse M-Day. Seems like this place could use some _more mutants_." He intones the last two words gravely.

Rogers jumps like he was expecting something to happen when Stark finished his sentence, and Stark cackles. Rogers scowls.

"Sorry, sorry," Stark says. "Bad joke. Really bad joke." He's still grinning. "Though, I mean, it's not such a bad idea, actually, when you think about it—"

"Let them figure it out for themselves," Rogers says. "We're leaving them their Gauntlet, after all."

Stark nods, and then his face is suddenly somber, serious. He meets Tony's gaze, then Steve's, then Bucky's, then the rest of the Invaders in turn.

"Listen," Stark says. "No one should have this kind of power. After we go, you need to split the Gems up. Six of you, six Gems, so you each should take one. Hide it. Bury it. Anything. Don't tell anyone. Especially not the government. You _can't_." He grimaces. "Okay, I know I'm not exactly being a great example right now, but— you really, really shouldn't have this. You don't know how much it costs you to fight it— to want to keep not using it. Tell them I destroyed it, if you have to say something."

Steve nods. "I understand."

"I'd advise against ending the war," Stark adds. "Believe me, I know you want to—but it's coming on its own." He smiles a very little smile. "Small changes, though. You might be able to get away with small things, before you split the Gems."

"What do you mean?" Steve asks.

Stark taps his chest. "Well, personally, I think a great use would be to give someone a brand-new heart. Know anyone who needs one?" He grins, cheerfully, self-satisfied, like he's thought of the best idea in the world and he knows it.

Tony's broken, malfunctioning heart tries to skip a beat, because he'd never thought—God, he's been looking for a cure for almost fifteen years, and he'd never found one. He'd been thinking of trying the Cosmic Cube, but then they'd lost the Cube, and he'd written that idea off. But the Infinity Gauntlet is _real_. He could do this. He could have this.

"You mean that?" Tony breathes, and God, let him mean it, let him mean it—

"Of course," Stark says, like it's easy. "I don't know enough about your current specs, otherwise I'd do it, but I'm sure you can manage it."

"Thank you," Tony says, and mere gratitude isn't enough, isn't anywhere near enough, but it's all he's got.

Steve catches his eye and smiles, and of course Steve's happy for him too, and he has Steve and he's going to have _a real heart_ and this is good, this is good, this is going to be perfect.

Then Stark's eyes go wide and he focuses on something behind Tony, over by the main building. "Oh, not again," he says.

Zemo is staggering out of the building.

* * *

Stark's face is a tense sickly gray, almost white, and Tony would guess his own face isn't much better. His heart lurches in his chest and fights the beat of the pump again, and he has to struggle to take a breath.

Zemo's moving slowly, limping toward them, but he looks to be in surprisingly good health for someone who Tony knocked down with the Power Gem not that long ago.

They could take him down. It would be easy. There's nothing left of him. It would be a mercy. It's what he wanted Stark to do for him. It's what his father would have wanted, too.

Tony can't make his hands move.

Stark's not moving, and Rogers is just staring—and no one else knows the truth. Steve lifts his shield, edge-on, tensing to throw, and Bucky raises his rifle.

"No," Tony whispers, and he didn't even know what he was going to say, but he's saying it. "No, don't. Don't hurt him."

Steve frowns, but he lowers the shield, and next to him, Bucky lowers his rifle.

Stark's eyes slide over to his. His eyes are wide enough that Tony can see the whites all around the irises, and he's breathing fast and shaky.

"Let me," he murmurs. "Let me do this, okay? I can do this. You'll see."

He guesses Stark's seen reason after all. Zemo can't be saved.

And Tony—well, Tony can't make himself do it, when it comes down to it.

"Okay," he says, and for an instant his vision swims with tears. "If you're sure."

And Stark steps out in front of all of them, and Tony can't put into words what's changed, but there's something in his face that's different: he's a superhero. He leads people. He's strong, he's brave, he's in charge. He knows what he's doing. This is his job, a job he's done for years, and people look to him in a way they've never looked to Tony.

"Tony," Zemo hisses. "How clever of you to escape and find your friends. But you will die with them, for you never discovered the self-destruct mechanism hidden in this base. Thousands of pounds of high explosive are waiting for my signal."

There's some kind of button in his hand, and God, oh God, if Stark can't do it after all then someone has to, right now. Tony can't lift his hands. He has a gun in his hands. He could take the shot. He can't move.

Zemo presses the button. It clicks.

Nothing happens.

Zemo's head tilts as he looks down at the button. He jams his thumb down on it a few more times.

Still nothing.

"Yeah, actually," Stark says, coolly, "I _did_ find the self-destruct, and while I was fucking up your electrical system with my brain I also fucked up your radio transmitters. So that won't be happening. This is the end for you. But I want to tell you something first."

Why the hell is he dragging this out? Does he want to torture Tony? Does he want to torture himself? Couldn't he make it quick? Tony's already going to have enough nightmares about this to last the rest of his life.

"Where I come from, you—my father—died when I was twenty," Stark continues. "Car accident. Definitely dead. Not like this. No Nazi brainwashing. I— I had to identify the bodies." Stark bites his lip, and there's something in his eyes that might be sadness. "I spent so long," he says, and Tony has to strain to hear him, "I spent so long thinking about what I'd say, what I'd do, if I got one more chance." There are tears streaking his cheeks. "I was— I was angry a lot. And then I was drunk a lot, because it was better than feeling anything else. You taught me that, I guess." He laughs. "All in all, it was a shitty childhood. It took me a while to admit that, even to myself. Still can't really admit it to other people. But, God, you were a _terrible_ father." He laughs again, and it sounds like a sob. "Always wondered what it would feel like to say that to you."

Stark raises his fist. The air is all glorious rainbows and light around the Infinity Gauntlet, and it's awful that it's so beautiful, because Stark's going to _kill him_ and Tony doesn't want to watch, but he can't look away.

And then Stark smiles. "But I loved my father," he whispers. "I did. And I know that the Tony Stark from this universe loved you, and that in this universe you loved him. So this is the end for you, but it's also a new beginning. Because, see, I know you deserve the second chance I'll never have."

The Infinity Gauntlet gleams bright, and the green Gem brightest of all. The Soul Gem, Tony knows; he learned that from Stark's mind.

" _Remember who you are!_ " Stark cries out, and the Gauntlet glows brighter than anything, like staring at the sun.

The glow fades, and Stark lowers his hand.

"Tony? Son?"

It's not Zemo's voice, with that hideous fake accent and cold sneer. It's his father's voice, familiar, comforting, with more than a hint of concern. He claws at the hood, rips it off his head, and lets it fall, and it's his face, Howard's face, his father's face underneath—a little stunned, brows furrowed in that same concern, and so, so kind.

This is _real_.

Tony can't breathe. He can't think. He didn't know this could happen. He didn't know he could even hope for this, and now he doesn't know what to do.

Stark has a little more self-possession than him, but not much more. He is, however, the one who manages to speak first. "Not me," he says, and he shuffles to the side, looking like he's about to fall over even in the armor, to point his thumb in Tony's direction. "That's him. I'm just him from another universe. Not the one you want."

His father smiles. "I think that still makes you my son. Can't I want both of you?" he adds, and he looks from Stark to Tony and back again.

Stark's crying again, but Tony's positive that this time they're tears of joy.

Steve nudges Tony forward, because his own legs don't seem to be working right anymore.

"Hi, Dad," Tony finally manages to say.

His father smiles. "I missed you, son."

Tony smiles back and he thinks maybe he's crying, too. "How about that for an adventure, huh?"

"Not exactly the one I wanted."

"It almost never is," Tony agrees, and it's hard to talk when he just wants to cry.

That's Steve's hand on his shoulder, he thinks.

"Hey," Steve murmurs. "I hate to interrupt this, but do you think we could move the reunion? There's still a lot of fire around here and I'd rather not stick around to see what happens when it mixes with explosives."

"Sure, let's go." Tony lifts up his head and looks for a way out that isn't entirely covered in flame.

"I've got this one," Stark says, unexpectedly. He holds out his hand and another portal appears; on the other side of this one is the barn they were in this morning. "There we go."

Stark looks pale still and shaky, like he might collapse even in the armor; Rogers has stepped up next to him, and he has a hand bracing him.

"You all right?" Rogers murmurs.

Stark shoots him a grin. "I'm good. Besides, I couldn't let you have all the memory fun, could I?" He's still grinning. "You'll never guess who I got that idea from."

Rogers looks a little misty-eyed, and he just squeezes Stark's arm, over the armor, and he looks away, over at the rest of the Invaders, not speaking. Tony has no idea what that means.

"Okay," Rogers calls out, "everybody move out!"

He and Stark are first through the portal, Rogers' hand still on Stark's arm; then come Torch and Toro, then Namor, then Steve and Bucky, until finally it's just Tony and his father standing there in the remains of the base.

"It's good to see you again," his father says. "I— I'm sorry."

"It wasn't you," Tony says instantly. "You have nothing to apologize for. But let's get you home, okay?"

His father's face lights up. "I can go home?"

"Yeah," Tony says, and it feels like the last burden on him lifts. He has his father. He can have a heart. He can maybe even have Steve. He can have everything he wants, everything he thought he could never have. "You can go home. We can all go home." He's pretty sure Fury will owe them all some extended leave after this. He'd damn well better.

His father steps forward and Tony wraps his arms around him. He's only wanted to hug him again for years. His father hugs him back, just as hard.

Tony lets him go, grabs his hand, and they walk through the portal together.

* * *

Even though they're well out of battle, Tony feels like he can't settle down; everything is almost dreamlike. God, his father's _alive_. The barn is a chaotic mess of cheerful activity, as the Invaders are disarming themselves and digging into their packs, thankfully still present where they'd left them.

Stark, who at some point early on changed from his armor back into that bizarre skin-tight black uniform, snaps the fingers of the hand wearing the Infinity Gauntlet. "Captains America," he says, in a voice suggesting long practice, years of repetition, "chow call! The last of my personal stock of SHIELD high-calorie rations, now available for super-soldiers!" In his other hand, white-gloved, he holds out a handful of foil-wrapped bars.

"What about for the rest of us?" Bucky asks. He's digging into a can of mystery meat, so he's not exactly starving.

"They need it more, and more of it. Come on, I'm sure you've seen Cap eat after he fights," Stark says. "You can't run a super-soldier metabolism on no food. That's why I bring snacks."

Looking a little shaky, Rogers gratefully rips open one of the bars, stuffs half of it into his mouth, and then Tony blinks and somehow it's gone and Rogers is grabbing another one. Rogers looks visibly better even after one bar. Steve is a little more hesitant at first, tentatively taking a bar, but he catches up quickly, and soon Stark's out of food.

"Thanks," Steve says.

"You brought me snacks," Rogers asks, "even when you thought I was—?"

Stark's shoulders move in an embarrassed shrug. "Habit. You know. Besides, I mess around with my own metabolism enough, these days." Tony suspects that the first answer was the true one.

Tony's aware that his father's staring at the sight.

"Is there more than one Captain America, then?" he asks. "We— they— the Axis, they'd always assumed it was one man, based on the newsreels."

"We only made one," Tony says. "We're just borrowing the other one. He's from the same universe as the other me."

Rogers already has his cowl off, and Steve, who was clearly listening, pulls his own cowl back and grins over at them. They're clearly the same man, but years apart.

"I'm the one from this universe," Steve offers, and then he heads over in Tony's direction and holds out his hand, politely, to his father. "Captain Steven Rogers. United States Army."

His father's staring, an amazed little smile spreading across his face, and he shakes his hand. "You're the younger one, then."

Steve nods. "I'm twenty-three, sir." Tony isn't sure whether he appends the honorific out of politeness or a guess at what his father's rank would have been, but either way Tony thinks his father is charmed. Steve's very charming. "And it's an honor to meet you."

His father's still smiling, although there's a look on his face like he can't imagine what Tony could have been saying about Baron Zemo that was at all positive. "Is it?"

The nod this time is more enthusiastic. "Of course. I'm— I'm a great admirer of your son's work." He has that earnest, innocent look down pat, and Tony manages not to grin. He knows that on one level Steve does actually mean it, but still. "He's never spoken much about his family, but of course I'd want to meet Tony's father." He smiles. "I'm so glad it's possible now."

"We're very good friends, Dad," Tony puts in, and his father smiles more broadly.

"Well," his father says, "then I look forward to getting to know you."

"I do as well," Steve says.

And Steve just grins that bright-eyed smile, glorious and beautiful, and that's it, Tony can't wait one more moment.

"Excuse me," Tony says, "but could I talk to you privately for a minute, Captain?" He keeps his tone brisk, and Steve gives him a businesslike nod in return.

"Of course."

They head outside, around the side of the barn, and Tony glances around to make sure there's no one watching before he hauls Steve's head down and kisses him, hard. Steve makes a surprised noise against his mouth and then kisses him back, just as fiercely.

"You're alive," Steve murmurs into his mouth. "God, Tony, you're alive, and I kept wondering if I would ever see you again—"

"I'm here," Tony says. "I'm here." He doesn't even know how to say what he wants to say. "And you're here, right? This is my life, this is what it's like, there are all these things I never told you, and I don't blame you if you don't want—"

"Of course I'm here," Steve says, kissing him again. "And you do _war work_ , Tony. It doesn't bother me."

"I don't want us to turn into them," Tony says, and he doesn't know if he's pleading with Steve or the universe at large. "They've hurt each other so much."

"So we won't be them," Steve murmurs, absolutely confident. "We won't, I swear. And besides, they're in love with each other. I think we could do a lot worse."

Steve kisses Tony's cheek and smiles and there are so many things that Tony wants to say, things that are too new for them to name, but he knows how he feels, how they both feel.

"I'm so glad you're here," Steve says, and his eyes are bright with joy as he leans in to kiss him. "I'm so glad you made it."

Tony pulls back and manages a smirk, mostly because he's pretty sure Steve likes the smirk. "I know you've read Marvels. I always win."

"I'm almost positive," Steve says, and Tony tilts his head up to let Steve press kisses to his jaw, and oh, that's a nice spot. "I'm almost completely positive," he pants, repeating himself, "that this never happened in Marvels."

"I bet you thought about it, though," Tony murmurs, and Steve shudders against him, eyes gone dark. They might have only been doing this for a week, in less than ideal conditions, but Tony figured out pretty fast that dirty talk really, really does it for Steve. And Steve's sensitive enough that the things that really do it for Steve tend to have spectacular results. Near the top of Tony's list of things to do when they have a room with a door that locks is to see if Steve can come just from Tony talking to him. "I bet you thought about it happening a hell of a lot. I'd have my wicked way with you in some cave or jungle or ancient temple, yeah?"

The only noise Steve can make in reply is a strangled moan, and Tony leans in and kisses him, and then Steve's hands slide down Tony's back to palm his ass and oh, _that's_ very interesting, yes, yes, it is, and Tony loses himself briefly in the feel of Steve's hands on him and the taste of Steve's mouth, desperate against his, and Steve's heart, beating nearly as thunderously as his own. Steve's alive. They made it. They both made it. Somehow Steve's _lifting_ him, easily, one-handed, and God, that's really, _really_ good. His legs are wrapped around Steve's waist as Steve pushes Tony back against the side of the barn, pinning him in place. Tony's honestly never before considered being held up against a wall and fucked as a thing that could actually happen to him—he's not exactly a small guy—but having a super-soldier for a sweetheart clearly has some advantages.

He gasps, breathless—

And someone clears his throat.

Tony blinks and stares over Steve's shoulder.

Rogers' face is bright red, his mouth twisted into a sour line. "Not _again_ ," he says. "Really? _Really_? Already?"

"I don't see what you're upset about this time," Tony tells him, summoning up his best smirk. "He's still got his pants on. Come on. You don't need to make that face."

Steve drops him rather abruptly and turns around. "Oh. Hello." There's a little bloom of color on his cheekbones. That fair Irish skin, Tony supposes.

"He's just sad he didn't think of this first," Tony tells Steve. "I think my counterpart needs to step up the seduction a little."

"Or _he_ does," Steve retorts, grinning, gesturing to Rogers. "Maybe a little less staring at his ass, even though he might as well be naked in that uniform, and maybe a little more action. Just some tactical advice," he adds, to Rogers. 

"I'm doing just fine in that department, thank you," Rogers says, and he goes a little redder.

"The staring's a good start, though," Steve says, cheerfully, like he didn't hear him.

Tony considers this. "Maybe I should wear something like that." It seems that every Steve in every universe would appreciate it.

"Or you could just get naked," Steve says, though the suggestion is a bit hesitant, and yeah, Tony likes that idea. A lot.

"If you're _quite finished_ ," Rogers says, grumpily, and Tony thinks he's just jealous now, "I was wondering if I could speak to you, Captain."

"Oh," Steve says. "Okay. All right."

He smiles at Tony as Rogers escorts him away, over to another, possibly even more private, side of the barn.

Now alone, Tony lets himself slide down the side of the barn and hit the dirt. It's been a long day. He thinks he can hear Stark inside, talking to his father, although the words are too muffled to make out, and he's glad they have the chance to talk. He can only imagine how much he'd want the opportunity, if it were him—and it sort of is him. And he's in no hurry. He has the rest of his life.

He tips his head back against the barn and contemplates the landscape. He can make out the shape of Zemo's fortress in the distance. It's clearly still on fire. There's a bit of smoke in the air. Torch and Toro must be very proud of themselves. They should all be proud of themselves. They did it. 

It's good he's already looking that way, otherwise he would have missed the explosion.

There's a massive fireball, pluming into midair, where Zemo's fortress was. The fire reached the explosives after all. Tony stares in wonder and admiration. Fury is going to be so very mad, but it will be so incredibly worth it.

Stark sticks his head around the side of the building. "Was that the mountain?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Boom," Tony agrees, and Stark grins the delighted grin of someone who also appreciates a really good explosion.

Tony leans back against the barn and laughs and laughs. This is the _best_ adventure.

* * *

"So," Stark says, addressing the whole ragged group of them, "as nice as it's been to get to know you all, I think it's time for us to say goodbye."

Rogers smiles. "I agree with that."

Rogers steps forward and shakes Tony's hand, and then Steve's, and then Bucky's—Bucky gets a clap on the shoulder as well as a handshake—and then down the line with the rest of the Invaders and even with Tony's father, bidding them all farewell.

Tony stops and stares awkwardly at Stark. Now that Stark's back out of his armor he's not towering over Tony, and it's still so strange to see his own face, his own eyes staring back at him, even as he knows that this is the last time he'll ever see himself like this.

"You want a handshake?" Tony says, and he holds out his hand.

They both look down, and then Stark lifts his head and grins.

"Fuck, no," he says. "I want a hug. We like hugs."

"We like hugs," Tony agrees, and Stark embraces him, hard enough that all of his holstered weapons jam almost painfully into Tony's sides. Sadly, he isn't letting Tony keep the ray gun, but they did steal several of Hydra's. 

It's strange being hugged by himself, but Tony kind of likes it.

Stark draws back and holds him at arm's length, hands on his shoulders. "I know the chance of me following good advice is very poor, but take care of yourself, okay? Fix your goddamn heart and then split the Gauntlet. And then take care of him." His gaze flickers over to Steve and back. "God knows he won't want you to, he'll never want you to, but he'll need it. And— and take care of— of Dad, okay? Just, please—"

"I know," Tony says. "I understand. It's going to be all right. And you're going to be all right too, yeah?"

Stark makes a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "I am probably going to need _so much therapy_ , but yeah." He smiles ruefully. "I've— I've got Steve. When we're together, we can do anything. I'll be good. Maybe I'll even be happy. I think maybe I am."

"You deserve it," Tony tells him. They all do.

Stark smiles. He hugs Steve too, and whatever words he exchanges with him, Tony doesn't catch, but they leave Steve smiling. He shakes hands with the rest of the Invaders, and then, finally, hugs his father, one last time. They both look a little teary-eyed.

Stark steps back. Rogers is at his side.

"All right," Stark says. "Let's do this."

"There's no place like home?" Tony suggests.

Stark grins back. "Ruby slippers are in the case, sorry." His armor suitcase is at his feet.

"People still watch that film?" Bucky asks.

Rogers nods. "It's a classic."

"Much like Steve here," Stark says, grinning, and Rogers huffs out a fond laugh.

As Tony watches, Stark takes a breath and holds out his hand. The Infinity Gauntlet shines bright, purple and orange predominating. Space and Time. And then behind Stark, another portal irises open. The other side of the portal this time is a huge futuristic room, bare metal and glass, with some kind of sturdy metal doors and an observation area behind more glass, set high up in the wall. It looks like something out of Flash Gordon.

"Universe match confirmed," Stark murmurs. "Hello, Earth-616. We're finally coming home."

Rogers frowns. "Where _is_ that?"

"Helicarrier," Stark says. Whatever that is. "Decontamination and isolation chamber. I thought I'd make it easy on Hill. She's probably had a rough week."

And then Stark slides the Infinity Gauntlet off his hand and passes it to Tony. The Gems gleam, shining from the Gauntlet, and Tony can almost feel the power pouring off of them. He clutches it firmly, like it's a bomb that will go off if he drops it, but at the same time he doesn't want to get too close to it. He's seen what this thing can do, and it's the most terrifying thing he's handled.

He's going to use it. Just once. And then they're going to break it.

He's definitely going to take a photo first, and write up a story for Fury. For Marvels, later. At the end of it he'll say the Gauntlet disappeared on its own. A mystery.

"The portal will close when we're gone," Stark says. "You remember everything I told you?"

Tony nods. "I remember." It's not like there's any chance of him forgetting it.

Stark bends down and picks up his armor. "All right."

Rogers sketches out one last wave to the Invaders. "Good luck, everyone."

Stark's free hand finds Rogers', and their fingers intertwine. Stark flashes the room one last smile.

"Have a good life," Stark says, very softly. He's telling it to Tony, his father, Steve, the rest of the Invaders—all of them.

Stark and Rogers turn to face the portal. Their bodies are outlined in rainbow light. They stand there, still, poised on the very edge of the universe. They wait one second, two, and then as one they leap forward, away, and on into the future, together.


	5. Epilogue

_Network connection established_.

The first thing Tony's aware of, even before his feet hit the helicarrier deck, is the data uplink. Extremis reaches out for satellites and finds them, handshake complete, passwords transmitted, and for the first time in a week Tony's brain is flooded with news and maps and _oh God, computers_. He's missed computers so much. It's jarring, to go from radio silence—except for actual radio, telegraphy and numbers stations and if he never has to hear Nazis calmly reciting numbers for hours it will be too soon—to this. And, he thinks, Extremis isn't better than those glorious moments where the Infinity Gauntlet gave him Steve in his mind, Steve who saw him, all of him, and never turned away—

He turns the feeds down a little and lets them babble to themselves in the back of his mind. He'll go through his email later. Little steps.

The portal closes. Steve lands next to him, and Tony sets the armor suitcase down. He doesn't let go of Steve's hand, and Steve makes no move to let go of his.

The intercom crackles, and Tony sees figures moving in the observation booth high up, and, wow, Maria is _on the ball_ today, maybe she can have this goddamn job—

_Director Stark of SHIELD still missing since last Monday_ , the AP news feed choruses. _Subdirector Maria Hill has issued a prepared statement to the press, emphasizing that SHIELD is taking all possible measures to_ —

Tony snaps the feed off. He's kind of gotten used to the quiet.

"Inhabitants of Earth-90214," Maria begins, and wow, Tony was hoping for a snappier universe number than that. "Be advised that you have completed a multiversal transit and are no longer on your own version of planet Earth. For your own safety, we are temporarily restricting you to this room while we scan you. Please identify yourselves."

Her voice is crisp, clear; she's following procedure. She doesn't know they're not from that Earth, after all. Tony's pretty sure he wrote this section of the SHIELD handbook. He wonders if she's already got Alternate Reality Monitoring and Operational Response on standby, this being a multiverse problem. He wonders if Fury even told her about ARMOR. It wasn't like Fury ever even told _him_ , but, well. There was a file. He hacked it. He read it.

"Hey, Maria!" Tony yells up at the intercom. "Ditch the rulebook! I'm from here! Earth-616! Fell through a portal last week. Just got back. You miss me?"

Because Tony's kind of an asshole, he reaches out with Extremis and makes all the terminals in the observation booth blink _hello, world_. Computers. He loves computers.

There's a pause.

"Tony?" Maria says, and he thinks maybe she sounds happy. Or annoyed. Or both. "God, Tony, where the hell have you been? We've been looking for you for a goddamn week. Richards said it was another Earth, based on the readings, but he couldn't get a lock on the exact one. Where _were_ you?"

"Earth-90214, apparently!" Tony yells back. "It was 1943. They had a Cosmic Cube. Long story. Tell you in a bit."

He can see Maria moving behind the glass, and then, suddenly, she freezes. Tony knows she's taking a nice long look at his traveling companion. The intercom crackles again.

"Tony," she says, and her voice is sterner now, disapproving. "We all know how much you miss Steve, but you can't— you can't just steal another world's Captain America. You know that."

God. She thinks he'd actually take a Steve from another world and bring him here. He'd been miserable enough that he might actually have thought about it. He doesn't think he'd really have done it, though. Luckily, he didn't have to. He found the best solution.

Steve looks up and waves at the booth. "Tony didn't steal me!" he calls up. "I'm from here too."

"What?" Maria's voice is incredulous, disbelieving.

"He's _ours_ ," Tony says, and he wants so very badly to say _he's mine_. He can feel himself grinning, smiling wide. "While I was there, I got my hands on an Infinity Gauntlet— _really_ long story—and I brought him through and back to life. Our Steve. Check with anyone you want. Run any test you want. He's from this universe."

There's another long pause.

"Steve?" Maria asks. Her voice is trembling now. "God, Steve, is it really you?"

"It's really me," Steve says, and he's smiling too, smiling just like Tony is. "It's good to be back."

In the observation booth, a dark-suited figure has her hands over her mouth and is practically doubled over.

"Oh my God," Maria's repeating. "Oh my God, _Steve_."

"And no locking him up," Tony snaps at the intercom, because he's pretty sure Maria's going to remember the actual political circumstances in a couple of minutes. "We're getting him a pardon. Release him on my authority. Release him into my custody. I'll take full responsibility, and if anyone so much as fucking thinks about laying a hand on him, they're going to have to go through me first."

He steps forward, and he can feel the undersuit start to pool under his uniform, and, hey, now he's home, he doesn't have to worry about breaking his only set of clothes to get the suit on—

Steve squeezes his hand. "Shh," he murmurs. "Stand down, Tony. They're not coming after me."

"You don't know that—"

"Of course we're not going to touch him," Maria says. She sounds... appalled, maybe. Aghast.

"Sorry, Maria," Steve calls up. "Tony's been in World War II for a week and just came out of combat. We're a little keyed-up here. And he's sure as hell not going to admit this to you, but he needs at least some sleep and some food before you debrief him."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Aww, Steve, come on." Steve's still Steve, after all. This is what he does. This is why the Avengers started calling them Mom and Dad in the first place.

Secretly, Tony kind of likes it when Steve fusses about him. There's no way he's ever telling him that.

"Understood," Maria says. "We're confirming 616-local universe match on both of you," she adds, and she sounds like she might actually cry. "Five minutes for the rest of the scan and decontamination, and then we'll let you out of there. Just sit tight."

The intercom clicks off.

"Home sweet home," Tony says, grinning over at Steve. "How does it feel to be back?"

Steve looks at him and smiles, but then the smile fades, and he looks away almost guiltily. "It's good, but." He bites his lip. "While we're still alone, I— I have a confession to make."

He tugs his fingers out of Tony's grasp.

Here it comes.

"A confession?"

"Yeah," Steve says, still not meeting his eyes. "A confession. Just before we left—I told my other self about Zemo's drone plane. About the ice. About waking up in the future." He pauses, and when Tony doesn't immediately fill the silence with words, he rushes on like he wants to get it all out, like it's eating him up inside. "I know you didn't want to tell them. I understand. I understand if you're angry with me. But I couldn't not say anything. I couldn't just leave them like that."

"Steve—"

Steve bites his lip again. "I had to at least try, for Bucky's sake. Maybe the Nazis will make a new Zemo there. Maybe they won't. But if they do, and if they launch that plane—I don't want it to be the same. I don't think I can change everything. But if I'm lucky, my counterpart can keep Bucky off the plane. I might be able to save him, in some universe. You have to know how much that means to me. There only ever needed to be one person, one of us, to stop that plane. Only one of us needed to fall." His breathing now is harsh and shallow. "And it's going to be me. My counterpart. Because that's what I do. I did it, and I'd do it again, and I'd still do it. Even if you told me what was going to happen to me, I'd still do it. Hell, even if you told me I was going to die, I'd still do it. Without hesitation. So I can't save my counterpart. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for how your other self is going to feel, I'm sorry for his loss, but I— I can't fix that. But maybe, just maybe, I can finally save Bucky."

"Steve—" Tony tries to speak again, but Steve still doesn't let him interrupt.

"I know myself, Tony," Steve says, face set, but he's reaching out as he speaks, like he'd like to be clinging to Tony's hand again but can't bring himself to do it. "And if there's one thing I know about myself, it's this: when the fate of the world is at stake, I'm always going to take that fall."

* * *

The bike is revving up between Steve's legs, and the new Baron Zemo's stolen drone plane is halfway down the runway.

It's all happening. It's all happening just like he said it would.

Steve feels calm, set, determined. He feels like nothing can touch him. He knows what's going to happen. He's had a year and a half to come to terms with this. He's had more time than a lot of fellas have had. He's had a far better life than he thought he would, and he's been so grateful for every moment of it. And at least this way it will mean something.

He wishes he could have told Tony goodbye. He didn't tell him about this. If Tony had known, he would have tried to talk him out of it. He probably would have tried to reassemble the Infinity Gauntlet and save him. Steve doesn't know where anyone else's Gem is, other than his own. And they shouldn't bend reality on a whim. They shouldn't play God. He's meant to fall here. It happens, Rogers had said, voice hoarse. It happens in so many universes. He saves the world. He falls. He freezes.

He remembers how Tony kissed him goodbye, the last time. They always knew every time could be their last, and Tony kissed him then like he knew it.

It was enough. It is enough. It will have to be enough.

It doesn't hurt, Rogers said. The cold feels just like falling asleep. He won't remember it. They'll find him in the future. Over fifty years in the future. On his world, it was Stark who found him. It was Stark who woke him from the ice. Stark's voice was the first thing he heard, welcoming him to the future. That was how they found each other.

In fifty years, it won't be Tony. It can't be. Not for him.

He'll miss him. God, he'll miss him. He hopes Tony will get the letter he wrote, the private one, the one with nothing redacted for the censors, telling him how much he loves him. How he hopes Tony will go on. How he hopes Tony will be happy. How he's going to go on the biggest Marvels adventure ever.

It's time.

And then Bucky's weight settles onto the seat behind him, and Bucky's arms wrap around his waist.

No.

_I don't want you to fall_ , he thinks. Rogers had said, Rogers had said he could save Bucky, could keep Bucky from falling too, if only he kept him from following him. He thought he'd left Bucky behind, safely inside the base. He'd locked the goddamn door and he'd jammed a chair under it. Apparently it hadn't been enough.

"You're not supposed to be here!" he yells, terrified, because he can't save himself, but God, he has to save Bucky—

Bucky grins a feral grin. "We've got to stop that plane, Cap," he says. "You think I'm going to let you have all the glory?"

Steve's stomach twists, horrified, because Rogers told him what happened to Bucky in his universe and it's so far from glorious that there aren't even words. The Soviets do to Bucky what the Germans did to Tony's father, only worse, and for longer. For the rest of the century. Rogers told him about Bucky's arm, about the brainwashing, about the freezing, about the Winter Soldier, about the assassinations, and Steve had promptly been sick in the bushes, just hearing about it. He can't let that happen here.

"I know the future," he says, and the plane's still moving, and he's got to go or it'll be untold innocent civilians, dying instead, when Zemo figures out how to send this plane against the Allies. "At Cassino—my other self told me what happens. We don't come back from this one, Buck. But you can live. Just get down. It doesn't have to be you. Only me. You can still make it."

"Like hell!" Bucky retorts. "You're not doing this alone!"

There's no time. He's got to go. He opens the throttle and the bike zooms forward.

The runway ends in a cliff, and Bucky leaps up and off the bike, a familiar move, getting a solid hold on the leading edge of the wing. As the bike drops away below, Steve jumps after him, and he just barely catches the trailing edge of the wing and pulls himself up. Bucky's ahead of him.

"Drop off! Drop away!" Steve yells, and he wonders if this is how it happened in every universe, if the path is set, if it always has to be like this for them.

Bucky's standing on the wing, bracing himself, hands splayed over the glass of the cockpit. Steve thinks he sees something spark. He's better with bombs than Bucky is. It shouldn't have been Bucky. It should have been him.

"I think I set something off!" Bucky yells, and then his eyes go wide. "I see a fuse. Oh God, Cap, it's booby-trapped—"

The explosion is deafening, a bloom of sound and fire, as the plane bursts apart.

Steve's falling, and he's reaching out for Bucky, and there's nothing he can do—

He can't change the future—

Oh, God, Bucky— and Tony—

God, oh God, he's sorry, but there was nothing he could do—

He'll save the world, but he'll lose everyone—

The water rushes up to meet him, and then there's nothing.

* * *

Steve keeps his head down, gaze fixed on the bare metal deck of the helicarrier. He waits for Tony's disapproval, for his censure. But Tony says nothing. God, Tony must be furious. They'd made all those promises, and Steve went and did the one thing Tony had asked him not to do, because he knew it was right, because he couldn't not tell them.

"I don't even know if it did any good," Steve says. "I wish I knew. But it was the right thing to do. I know it was. And if you want to— well, whatever you decide." His throat's closing up, tight with tears. They could have had this. They almost could have had this. But maybe they don't work out, maybe he and Tony will always be like this, and maybe Steve didn't even save them, on that other Earth. He doesn't know. "I'll understand if you— if you don't want— if you don't trust—"

There's a warm pressure against his cheek, his jaw. Tony's touching his face with gloved fingers, tilting his head up to meet his gaze.

"Hey, Winghead," Tony says, and he's _smiling_. His gaze is almost sweet. Comforting. "Shh. Don't be like that, Steve. I'm not angry with you."

Steve blinks. He can't have heard that right. "You're not? But—"

"I know you." Tony's thumb rubs back and forth along his jawline. "I _know_ you, remember?" He smiles again. "So I knew you were going to tell your counterpart, because of course you were. But I went one better." Tony actually bounces on his toes, like he's got the world's best secret and he can't wait to tell Steve it.

Steve can't think. He really can't. "What— what did you do?"

Tony grins, delighted. "I told _my_ counterpart. And," he adds, while Steve's reeling, "I gave him _the coordinates_. Not where we find you. The ones reconstructed for the plane crash." His face is bright, eager. "I might have had those memorized. For, uh, my entire life."

"Tony," Steve begins, and he doesn't even know what to say. "You've spent days saying we shouldn't tell them—"

"I was _wrong_ ," Tony says, and for someone who's wrong he's sure smiling like this is the best thing he's ever said. "I was wrong and you were right and they're going to live now. They're all going to live."

"How do you know?" Steve asks, and he wants to believe, he wants so much to believe in this—

Tony's smile is soft and easy. "Because you might know yourself, Steve, but I know myself too. And if there's one thing I know about myself, it's this: when you fall, I'm always there to catch you."

Steve's smiling back now, and he feels like he never wants to stop. Tony did this for him. Tony saved everyone. They came to the same decision. It's going to be all right. They're going to be all right. They can do this. "I love you," he tells him. His heart's brimming with happiness and those are the only words left in him, and God, he loves this man. He's always loved him. "Tony, I love you so much, you know that?"

He doesn't think he's ever said it to Tony. He heard it, in Tony's mind, with the Infinity Gems, and of course Tony felt how he felt about him, then. But saying it is different.

And Tony's smiling at him like he doesn't know he got to be this lucky—which is exactly how Steve feels right now—smiling wide and happy. "I know," Tony murmurs. "And you know I love you too, right?"

"I'm never going to forget it," Steve says, still smiling.

And maybe they should have talked about how they were going to come out to the world, because he's pretty sure that there are actually still SHIELD agents watching, and one of them might be Maria Hill, but if Tony doesn't care then he doesn't either. And they're kissing, and they're kissing, and this is Steve's new life, another rebirth, with Tony at his side.

* * *

The sky is cloudy and the sea choppy; as the _Lady Dorma_ rocks back and forth, spray hits Tony in the face, and he swears and drops the binoculars. There isn't anything to see anyway. No plane, no nothing.

Tony checks his watch again. He resists the impulse to feel for the paper tucked inside the lining of his coat. He's looked at it often enough; he has it memorized. A set of numbers, written in his own hand a year and a half ago by someone who wasn't him. A date. A time. Coordinates.

At the helm, Namor gives him a dirty look. "You're _certain_?"

Tony gives him the same look right back. They're alone on the little boat; it's not like there's anyone else who'd care. "A hundred percent. He wouldn't have made a mistake."

He remembers the way Stark's face had looked, when he'd written out the numbers on a scrap of paper and pressed it into his hand, minutes before they'd created the portal and left. Stark had known the information perfectly. The numbers had been engraved on his goddamn soul.

"This isn't where we find him," Stark had said, his gaze deadly serious, "but this is where he goes down. Be here."

At first Tony hadn't understood, but then it hit him all at once. "I thought you weren't telling us our futures?" he'd asked, stunned.

"I'm telling you _his_ future." Stark's eyes had been wide and grave. "In 1945 he and Bucky fall from a plane and hit the water. In my world, Steve freezes. The serum in his blood keeps him alive. We find him a bit over fifty years from now, alive in the ice. I find him. Just him. Bucky is alive, but... even less lucky."

"You're really telling me this?" he'd asked again. The guy had spent the entire time here being reticent to the point of lying, and now—? He could hardly conceive of it. But this was the truth. There had been so many half-uttered things that made sense now. This was why the other Steve Rogers hadn't aged. It hadn't been the serum. Or rather, it had been, but not in the way they'd let him assume.

Stark had smiled a little. "I'm telling you because I know Steve Rogers, and I'm absolutely positive _my_ Steve Rogers is telling _your_ Steve Rogers the future right now because he thinks he can save Bucky. But he can't. He's tried this before. So I'm telling you, because he can't do it alone. But now he has you. You can make a difference. In my world he never had you. Not here, not now. Yours has you."

"And now yours has had you, eh?" 

Tony had tried to make a joke of it, because what was a conversation without some innuendo, but Stark had only half-smiled again, sadly.

"You shouldn't have to live without him," Stark had whispered, pained; it was the face of a man who knew what it was like because he'd been there. "I wish I'd never had to. And if they find him in the future, in my time, then he won't have you either. Let me give you this. Let me do this for both of you. All of you."

So Tony had taken the paper and he'd listened to the details. He hadn't told Steve because he hadn't wanted to change what Steve knew about the future; suppose Rogers hadn't told Steve? What if telling him about the future changed the future somehow, some way they weren't prepared for? Besides, it wasn't like telling Steve he'd have to give his life for his country would have convinced him not to do it. No, this was the only way of saving him. It was all up to Tony.

Tony had hoped it would all be averted. After all, they'd freed his father of the Zemo conditioning—but Hydra had promptly found some other poor bastard to make into another Baron Zemo. And if Stark was right, Zemo is trying to launch a drone plane right now. Any minute now.

They just have to wait.

So they're waiting.

And then everything happens very, very fast.

A heavy-bellied bomber, with a silhouette Tony can't place, comes in low and fast and loud, the roar of the engines screaming in Tony's ears—and then blows in a fireball, brilliant orange and black, just off to the west. Tony's throat suddenly goes dry. How the hell could anyone survive that?

That has to be it.

"Go, go, go!" Tony yells, and Namor bares his teeth as the boat's engine purrs to life.

By the time they get to the wreckage, it's already sinking, and Tony's heart—and at least it's a normal heart, these days—is in his throat. There's only one figure next to the downed plane, struggling to paddle, and it's not Steve.

There's blood trailing in the water around Bucky. His mask is ripped away, his face is white and shocky, there are burns down his neck and side, and he's only paddling with one arm. His left arm is held at an awkward angle on the surface of the water; there's got to be a serious fracture there. But he's alive.

"Hey, kid," Tony calls out. "Need a lift?"

Bucky grins back, weakly, and tries to kick toward them. He looks around the surface of the water, around the twisted bits of metal and the floating gasoline fires, and his eyes are wider. He's looking for something. No, not something. Someone. "Did you get Cap?" he yells back. "He dropped before me! Did you get him? Did you get him?"

Namor's holding out both hands and he hauls Bucky aboard over the side; Bucky grits his teeth and groans when Namor touches his arm.

"We're going to get him," Tony tells Bucky. They have to. "We will. You okay there for a sec? Namor, we need to follow the course—"

"I've got it," Namor says, leaning Bucky against the gunwale and heading for the helm.

The engine fires up again, and Tony's counting seconds in his head, because time is working against them now. He doesn't know if Steve was conscious when he hit the water, what kind of shape he's in, or how long he can stay afloat. The serum has to have given him an edge, but Tony doesn't know how much of one he has.

They'll make it. They will.

It seems like an eternity before Tony sees him. Barely visible among the waves, the shield glints. Steve's floating face down, shield still affixed to his back. Dead man's float.

Tony's peeling out of his coat and diving before Namor has even stopped the boat. When he hits the water, it's so cold it's shocking. He can't even kick for a split-second, stricken with the breathtaking chill of it. But then he remembers: Steve. So he swims, cutting through the sea in efficient strokes, and then finally his grasping hand locks onto Steve's uniform, God, thank God, he's got him. He's got him.

He hauls Steve upright. Steve's face is bluish. He's not breathing. Oh God.

_One problem at a time_ , Tony thinks, and he wraps his arm around Steve and swims them both back to the boat faster than he has ever swum in his life. He has to keep his head. Paddle with his free hand. Kick. Paddle. Kick.

Then he's touching the boat and Namor's there and Tony's not sure if anyone is saying actual words but he hopes what he's yelling is "Not breathing!" and Namor nods grimly and lets Tony pass Steve up to safety. Steve's heavy, especially waterlogged, but then Namor has him and by the time Tony's climbed back into the boat Namor's gotten Steve laid out on the deck, head tilted back. Tony shoves Namor aside, because he can do this. 

Bucky is wrapped in a blanket, listing to one side, and staring; he's not in any condition to help. They need to get him some goddamn antibiotics. Fluids. Something. Anything. But first they need to save Steve, because if he dies— if he dies—

"Give him to me!" Tony yells, and he's kneeling at Steve's side.

Steve's mouth is slack and icy under his, but Tony breathes for him, and he breathes, and he breathes—

They can't have come this far to lose him now.

Steve's last leave was two months ago, a weekend pass in London, and Steve had laughed and kissed him and kissed him before he'd left for the station, warm and loving and delighted, so caught up in it that he'd nearly missed his train—

Tony breathes—

And Steve opens his eyes and gasps a ragged choking gasp. He turns his head and coughs up a truly disgusting amount of the North Atlantic onto the deck of Namor's boat.

Steve's eyes meet his. "Tony?" he rasps, disbelieving. "Am I dreaming? Am I dead? I— my other self, he told me the future, but I couldn't stop it— Bucky still jumped on the plane with me—"

He's shivering hard, and Tony grabs for a blanket and wraps it around him.

"Yeah, well, _my_ other self told me the future too," Tony says, proudly. "We got him, see?" He guides Steve to sit up, so he can see Bucky. "We got Bucky. It's going to be okay."

Bucky makes a gesture that's something like a wave, with his good arm. "Cap."

Steve smiles weakly.

"We got him," Tony repeats. "We got him, we got you. Both of you. You're safe. You're not going anywhere." Steve's not going into the ice. The reality of it sinks into him, and he's got one arm under Steve, holding him up, embracing Steve hard, and Tony doesn't fucking care what Namor thinks, and he's positive that Bucky Barnes the super-observant super-spy already knows, if only from the number of times Tony's sent Steve back from leave with beard burn.

He tilts Steve's head up and kisses him and kisses him and Steve smiles and kisses back and it's going to be okay. Better than okay. They've still got a war to win, and they can win it together. No one's leaving.

"So what happens now?" Steve whispers.

"Don't know," Tony says. "My counterpart didn't say. This part didn't happen in his universe." He smiles. "I suppose— I suppose now we make our own future."

"Our own future," Steve says, smiling. "Together."

His hand finds Tony's, fingers interlacing, and holds on tight.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all!
> 
> This story has a [story announcement](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/134250260569/big-bang-double-time) on Tumblr for you to like/reblog if you so desire. (I am [sineala](http://sineala.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.) 
> 
> The artists, on Tumblr, are [onebilliondollarman](http://onebilliondollarman.tumblr.com) (who has Tumblr art posts [1](http://onebilliondelights.tumblr.com/post/134260878906/the-first-of-3-pieces-i-did-for-the-capironman), [2](http://onebilliondelights.tumblr.com/post/134260877617/the-second-of-3-pieces-i-did-for-the-capironman), and [3](http://onebilliondelights.tumblr.com/post/134260879365/bit-awkward-the-last-of-3-pieces-i-did-for-the) (NSFW); [4](http://onebilliondelights.tumblr.com/post/134319744025/a-collab-i-did-with-phoenix-metaphor-for-the) is the collaboration) and [phoenixmetaphor](http://phoenixmetaphor.tumblr.com) (who has a Tumblr art masterpost [here](http://phoenixmetaphor.tumblr.com/post/134257522972/scenes-from-sinealas-double-time-for-the-2015)). Check out Phoenix' [time-lapse coloring for the spooning picture](http://phoenixmetaphor.tumblr.com/post/134258869342/time-lapse-coloring-on-one-of-my-bb-art-pieces-for)! And the [time-lapse coloring for the captivity picture](http://phoenixmetaphor.tumblr.com/post/134311050661/another-time-lapse-coloring-because-why-not)!
> 
> Art credits:
> 
> Chapter 1:  
> [Noir Steve and Noir Tony meet](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/34780/34780_original.png) (art by onebilliondollarman)
> 
> Chapter 2:  
> [616 Tony keeps vigil over 616 Steve](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/35691/35691_original.png) (lineart by phoenixmetaphor; colors by one billiondollarman)
> 
> Chapter 3:  
> [616 Steve watches 616 Tony sleep](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/35006/35006_original.png) (art by onebilliondollarman)  
> [616 Steve interrupts an intimate moment](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/35250/35250_original.png) (NSFW; art by onebilliondollarman)  
> [616 Tony cuddles 616 Steve](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/33880/33880_original.png) (art by phoenixmetaphor)
> 
> Chapter 4:  
> [616 Tony and Noir Tony are captured](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/34423/34423_original.png) (art by phoenixmetaphor)
> 
> Additional fanart:  
> Jadedgalvanizer has drawn [the epilogue](http://jadedgalvanizer.tumblr.com/post/152640896288/so-what-happens-now-steve-whispers-dont). (Art commissioned by priyasfinalfantasy.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Double Time (Fan Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319212) by [deadeyeboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeyeboy/pseuds/deadeyeboy)
  * [BB Art - The Longest Wait, This is a First & A Prison Shared by Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320007) by [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/pseuds/phoenixmetaphor)
  * [Middle Eight (the Beats Per Minute Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042307) by [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/pseuds/magicasen)




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